


A Final Test

by OneHelluvaPrincess



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Assassin Arya, BAMF Arya Stark, Braavos, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, F/M, Faceless Arya, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Not Canon Compliant, POV Alternating, POV Arya Stark, POV Jaqen H'ghar, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, The Faceless Men, The House of Black and White, Westerosi Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-07-09 10:36:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19886212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneHelluvaPrincess/pseuds/OneHelluvaPrincess
Summary: Arya Stark has been training at the House of Black and White for the last five years. Finally, she has become 'no one', and is about to be fully initiated into the Order of the Faceless Men. But while completing what she believes to be her first duty as a Faceless Man, she encounters a familiar face from her past. She hasn't seen Jaqen H'ghar since Harrenhal, but the questions that arise from their meeting and the events that follow threaten to undermine everything she has worked for.





	1. A Familiar Face

Chapter I

A Familiar Face

A shadow flitted over a darkened doorway, the oak panelling hanging slightly ajar. The light cast by the lanterns of the inn threw a wedge of light into the dingy alleyway, illuminating the dirt-clogged cobbles.

A cloaked figure emerged from the safety of the shadows and approached the door. A pair of pale hands reached up, one to open the door to the tavern, the other to push the hood back. A pale brow was revealed, crowned by thick, dark hair. Clear grey eyes darted about, wary and watchful. The girl went by many names; had had many names. Arry, the Ghost of Harrenhal, Nymeria, Cat of the Canals. Arya Stark, Princess of Winterfell, though that had been a long time ago, when she was no more than a child.

Now she was no one. A faceless assassin, about to carry out her first duty. She paused, hand on the latch, her grip iron on iron. She filled her lungs. The air was stagnant and foul-smelling but it soothed her racing heart. She slipped into the light and warmth of the inn. _Quiet as a shadow_.

It was late, past midnight, and most of the brawl had dispersed. There were, however, a few men left behind. Inebriated, incapacitated, and sprawled pathetically across carved wooden tables. All three of the bloated sots were dead to the world, with all of their soft spots exposed. It was true that Braavos was not King's Landing, and the people here had some honour when it came to taking lives, but the girl still found herself irked by their nonchalance.

 _Sitting ducks_ , she thought to herself. _They're lucky I'm not here for them_.

She was almost startled by her own cold-bloodedness, that she could be considering the many ways to kill total strangers. Her time at the House of Black and White had certainly changed her, taught her to think of these things dispassionately.

The girl had singled out her target the moment she entered the room and moved to a shadowed booth from which she could observe him. The man had dark hair that fell to his shoulders in waves and sharp, angry features that cast angular shadows across his face. Even when seated the girl could tell he was tall. He was lean, his shoulders not particularly broad, but there was a solidity about him that told her he was not to be considered weak.

The owner of the inn ambled over after a couple of minutes and she gave him her order, a pitcher of ale. It would look odd if she took nothing to drink, but she didn't want to risk her senses becoming addled by something too strong. When the man came back with her drink, she took a sip and then sat back to surreptitiously watch her mark.

For at least twenty minutes, he did little more than finger the rim of his pitcher, occasionally taking mouthfuls and wincing as the heat of his beverage hit the back of his throat. He seemed fairly inconspicuous. The girl could not understand why her client wanted this man dead.

 _It is not for me to pass judgement_ , she reminded herself sharply.

The girl had had her natural restlessness mostly trained out of her, but she was still somewhat relieved when, after another ten minutes, the man rose. He paused to drop some coins on the table before leaving, despite the innkeeper being nowhere in sight.

 _Not even a thief. An honest man, it would seem_ , the girl thought before she could stop herself. She dug her nails into her palms in annoyance. She had succeeded in every element of her training, but try as she might, she could not suppress her innate curiosity. Sometimes Arya Stark did not seem so far away.

The girl followed the man at a safe distance, always keeping to the shadows, her movements graceful and her footsteps hushed. Her target was weaving his way deeper into the back alleys of Braavos, though the girl still knew exactly where she was. Part of her thought she should just put a knife in his back, but again, the Stark in her had different ideas. He was to be her first kill as a fully-fledged member of the Faceless Men and, for some inexplicable reason, she wanted to look him in the eye when she did it.

The man turned down an alley that the girl knew to be a dead end. Either he had reached his destination, or he had no idea where he was going.

 _Or_ , she thought darkly, _you haven't been as careful as you thought and he's leading you into a trap_.

Her pace slowed as she turned down the alley; the man was nowhere in sight. She proceeded cautiously, feeling for the dagger concealed up her sleeve. The only source of light was the moonlight that bathed the walls, but the night was overcast and every cloud that passed over the face of the moon caused the shadows to morph and distort.

All of the girl's senses were alert, eyes noticing every movement, even the flick of a rat's tail from behind a barrel at the far end of the passage; ears picking up the far-off drunken shouts of men and the playful squeals of the women whose love they had bought for the night.

What she didn't sense, however, was an attack. She felt a rush of air a split second before a wall of flesh barrelled into her. She raised her arm to block a strike from the left and knew immediately that the impact would leave a mark. The man was fast, and strong. A glint of silver alerted her to the blade in his hand and she adjusted her tactics accordingly. Drawing her own knife, she deflected his next blow, but received a knee to the side instead. Winded, she staggered backwards a few steps.

He had clearly been trained by someone very skilled, finally making sense of why her client had paid so much to have a Faceless Man deal with him. The man didn't attack, but circled her like a predator would its kill.

 _No,_ she thought viciously. _I am the wolf._

She leapt at him with a feral snarl, landing blows in a flurry of flying limbs. Her opponent was forced backwards down the alley, parrying some blows, bearing the brute force of others. The girl found herself relishing the pained grunts he made when her blade grazed his flesh. Unfortunately, he was as quick as her and a good deal stronger and so she rarely did more than graze him.

They continued like this for half a minute before the man ducked under one of her swipes, throwing her off balance. He took advantage of this by knocking her blade clear out of her hand, sending it clattering half way down the alley. By this point they had reached the walled off end and the girl was backed up against the bricks. The man smirked, seeming sure of a victory, then paused.

"Why do you want me dead?" he enquired, sounding genuinely puzzled.

There was something jarringly familiar about his voice that the girl couldn't grasp. "I don't," she replied. "My client does."

The man considered this, twiddling his knife in his hands. "And why does your client want me dead?"

The girl gritted her teeth. Even now there was a stubbornness in her that hated admitting ignorance.

The man chuckled. "You do not know. Interesting." Then, seeing the look on her face, continued, "This bothers you?"

"It is not for me to pass judgement," she said, watching the knife that he was now tossing into the air and catching effortlessly.

At these words, he stopped and gave a slight smirk. "A girl is wise to say so, even if she does not think so."

She froze. His voice triggered a memory. The memory of a man with a fair face and white streaks in red hair. A man who owed three.

He smiled at the recognition on her face, then struck, quick as a viper. The girl was jolted into action. She used a crate at her side as leverage and launched herself up into the air and over the head of her assailant. Before he could react, she had grabbed his wrist and twisted the dagger from his hands. She crouched and swept her leg in an arc, knocking his feet out from under him.

Within the space of five seconds, the man had gone from what had seemed a guaranteed victory to having the girl straddled across his chest with the cold steel of his own blade pressed to his throat. She knew that she should kill him there and then, but her curiosity had been piqued by the way he had addressed her. It seemed that she had the upper hand until her target spoke.

"It would seem that we are at an impasse, lovely girl."

She glanced down to see that he had a knife of his own pressed to her ribs and growled in annoyance.

"A man should never carry just one knife, especially with one such as yourself out to get him."

"Who are you?" she snapped.

"Who does a girl think a man is? " he replied, his tone so calm and teasing that it set the girl's teeth on edge.

She hesitated. It was ridiculous to think that this man was the same Jaqen H'ghar she had known all those years ago at Harrenhal. But it wasn't just the way he talked, it was his voice itself. It had the same foreign lilt that Arya had found so fascinating, the same dulcet texture, like cool water running over smooth rocks. And now that he was this close the girl recognised his scent, mysterious and musky, like the pine forests that had surrounded her childhood home, but with an underlying sharpness that made her think of an exotic spice market.

"You speak like someone I knew a very long time ago," she said cautiously.

"And where is this man now?"

The girl thought back to the last time Arya had seen Jaqen, after she had refused to cross the Narrow Sea with him, instead choosing to stay in Westeros to find Robb and her mother, both of whom had been killed before she reached them. The Faceless Man had adopted a new identity and told her that Jaqen H'ghar was dead.

"He's dead," she replied coldly. "Along with everyone else."

The man's eyes softened. "A girl has suffered much heartbreak. A man is sorry for her."

"What do you know about it?" she hissed.

The man raised his hands in surrender, allowing the dagger to fall from his hand. Slowly, he lifted his hand to press his palm to his forehead. The girl realised what he was doing before it happened; she had seen it happen many times before.

The man's face began to change, his cheekbones became less harsh, the jaw line stronger. His dark hair became red, slashed through with white, and his eyes faded from brown to blue, until the man pinned beneath her was no longer her target, but the faceless killer from her past.

She stumbled back, dropping the knife in shock. "Jaqen?" she whispered disbelievingly.

"A man has the honour," he said with a smirk and a dip of his head. "We meet again, Arya Stark."

"No one calls me that anymore," she replied, still speaking in hushed tones.

He half grimaced, now standing before her. "A man is aware. The Cat of the Canals, he believes people call you. Strange. A man always thought a girl was more of a wolf."

It was amazing, that even after all this time, Jaqen could read her so easily. He had seen right through her at Harrenhal; known exactly who she was and what she wanted. Still, his insight was grating enough that her shock built into anger. She darted forwards and struck him across the face.

"Where were you?" she demanded. "You told me that if I ever needed to find you again, I only had to use that stupid coin of yours. I came to Braavos to find you, but you weren't here."

Jaqen massaged his cheek, looking slightly amused. "A man told you when we parted ways before that he has duties, too."

"I'm not joking. I needed you, Jaqen. I didn't know who to trust."

At this Jaqen dropped his hand. His usual light-hearted drawl took on a sincerer tone. "A man is truly sorry, lovely girl. A man would not have chosen to break his word. Had a man been here in Braavos, things might have been different, but he has been away for a very long time."

The girl stared hard at him. She tried to read him, to discern whether his words were truth or lie, but all she could think was that she liked the way her name had sounded when he spoke it. It made her almost willing to reclaim it, at least for her own use if no one else's. _Arya Stark_. The thought grounded her, anchored her tumultuous mind.

"It's all right," she said. "I suppose things turned out fine anyway."

"So it would seem," Jaqen grinned, flashing a set of disarmingly white teeth. "A girl has become rather formidable."

"I'm hardly a girl anymore," she muttered, trying to suppress a grin in return. Then a worrying thought struck her. "Jaqen, can I ask you something?"

"Anything, lovely girl."

"Why was I hired to kill you?"

"A man regrets to inform a girl that her client was not a real client. Tonight was one final test, one that all must pass before leaving the House of Black and White."

"But I don't understand. I _have_ left the House. They said I was ready."

"It is rare for anyone to be truly ready to take a life for the first time," Jaqen said softly.

"I killed people before I even came to Braavos," she protested.

"But a girl had good reason to take those lives, no? Tonight, her orders were to kill a man despite not knowing why, and as a man said, a girl is bothered by this."

She nodded hesitantly. "But I didn't kill you. Does that mean I failed?"

"The test was not to see if you could kill me, lovely girl. This would be almost impossible. A man is an experienced killer, while a girl is only just beginning. Although," he continued, wiping a trail of blood from his cheek. "A girl did better than most would have."

The girl fought against the heat creeping up her neck. He sounded almost impressed. "You let me win."

"On the contrary, a man wanted to see what a girl could do. That is why a man volunteered for the job. And besides, a man does not remember a girl winning," he countered with a grin.

She shrugged. "So, did I pass the test?"

The Faceless Man tilted his head and stepped closer to her. "In some ways, yes. A girl came closer than most to defeating a man. This shows great skill. However, a girl hesitated. A man gave a girl a dozen opportunities to take his life. There were no witnesses in the tavern; a girl could have poisoned a man's drink and had done with it. In the street, a knife to the back is all that was required. To be a Faceless Man requires ruthlessness. When taking a life, a girl must be quick, like a snake. Why did a girl wait so long before attacking?"

She averted her eyes. She could not tell him the real reason; her curiosity and stubbornness went against all the oaths she had taken.

"A girl says nothing. A girl keeps her mouth closed." She looked up, remembering when he spoke those same words to her as a child. Jaqen continued in the same low voice. "A girl keeps secrets. It does not for a man to spoil them."

"I don't have secrets," she insisted. She couldn't bear to fail now, after so many years training at the House of Black and White.

"A girl forgets that we have met before. A man knows a girl better than she would like. The same fire burns within her as it did all those years ago. A girl may be a girl no more, may have gained new skills, but she is the same underneath. Still stubborn, with more courage than sense."

By this point Jaqen had moved close enough that his breath stirred the hairs that hung around her face. She tried to contradict him, but her voice was weak.

"This is a good thing," he whispered, leaning to press his forehead against hers. "A man would mourn the loss of Arya Stark."

Then he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving only the lingering scent of cloves and pine needles. She watched him go, her heart and mind racing but content with the knowledge that they would meet again, and that there was someone in the world who still knew her as Arya Stark.


	2. Questions

Chapter II

Questions

  
The girl who was almost an assassin stood there in the alleyway far longer than she should have, heart pounding and mind reeling. The night air was still and Jaqen’s scent lingered in the air, the only indication that he had been there at all. Had he been there? Truly? Or was it just another trick played by the Faceless Men to test her? Her head told her the latter was very possible, but her gut said different. Her gut said that the man she had met tonight was the very same one she had known all those years ago at Harrenhal.

Eventually she shook herself back to reality. Her fight with Jaqen had not been as loud as a typical back-alley brawl, but it was still bound to have roused some of the neighbours, and it would not do to be caught skulking around in the aftermath. She may already have failed her test; the last thing she needed was to compound that failure by being spotted by a civilian. She was wearing her own face tonight, after all.

She drew her cowl over her head and slipped back into the shadows. As she began the walk back to the temple, she tried to push aside her buzzing thoughts and instead focus on quieting her steps, regulating her breathing, avoiding light and generally remaining invisible to anyone who might be watching. After her surprise encounter with Jaqen and the revelation that tonight had not been a graduation, as she had thought, but yet another test, she was understandably wary. There could well be more Faceless Men watching her from the shadows, assessing a performance she had not even known she was supposed to be giving.

Every so often she would take an unexpected turn, double back on herself, or simply duck into a shadowed alcove and wait to see if anyone was following her. At one point, she paused on a bridge across a deserted canal. Leaning her elbows on the brickwork, she peered into the still water below, body language relaxed so as to appear to any onlookers that she was simply a late-night wanderer admiring the reflection of the moon and stars. In reality she was scanning the reflection of the rooftops which overlooked the canal, looking for any human-like shapes that might indicate she was being watched from above.

For all her efforts, the girl detected no sign of pursuit, and she arrived back at the House without encountering any trouble. She was confident she had not been followed, but as a final precaution, she decided not to enter via the ebony and weirwood doors at the front of the temple. She told herself it was because on the off chance she _had_ been followed, walking straight through the front doors would confirm her affiliation with the House of Black and White, and she did not want to draw attention to the Order.

Truthfully, it was because she didn’t want to encounter any Faceless Men who would tell her she had failed miserably and would have to remain an acolyte for another five years. If she could put off that misery until the morning, the gods knew she would.

So, she diverted down a side alley and emerged at the foot of a huge orange tree that grew next to the outer wall of the House’s courtyard. She hoisted herself up into its lower branches, the smell of citrus filling her nostrils, and scaled it until she was level with the parapets of the courtyard wall. The branches were flimsy this high up, but the girl was light and stepped quickly.

_Swift as a deer_ , she thought with a small smile, before it faded. What would her beloved teacher Syrio Forel think of her now? Would he be disappointed in her for failing her test tonight? Would he approve of the direction her life had taken at all? He had been training her in the ways of a water dancer, after all, and he himself had been the First Sword of Braavos. Compared to the life of an assassin, Syrio’s life had been one of honour and glory. No, she could not imagine her old teacher would be proud of her.

She pushed the thoughts away and made the short leap from the tree to the courtyard wall. The night had been pleasantly calm anyway, but an entirely new kind of hush fell over the girl’s shoulders as she descended a stone stairway to the floor of the courtyard.

No matter how many times she experienced it, she never fully got used to the feeling of re-entering the temple of the Faceless Men. The building may have been situated in the middle of a bustling port city, but within its walls there was a stillness to the air not unlike that of a tomb. She had found it a little unsettling when she had first arrived, but now it was comforting. The House of Black and White had, after all, become her home these last five years.

She crouched in the shadow of some shrubs at the base of the staircase and strained her senses. As far as she could tell, she was alone. Even master assassins and their trainees had to sleep, she knew, and the hour was very late. Her body was crying out for her bed, so she wasted no more time before slipping into the cool interior of the temple and hurrying quietly back to her chamber.

When the door was securely latched behind her, she slumped back against the wood panels and let out a heavy sigh.

“What a night,” she muttered, finally allowing herself to notice how tired she felt. The fight with Jaqen had taken its toll, and she could feel that she would have more than a few bruises come morning.

_Although_ , she thought with no small amount of gratification, _he will have several of his own._

She moved to sit on the edge of her bed and began unlacing her boots. She was far too tired to bumble around trying to light a candle, so she just pulled off her clothes in the dark and dumped them unceremoniously on the floor with her boots. There was no point folding them anyway; they were sure to need washing given that she’d spent the night brawling in alleyways with Jaqen H’ghar.

_Jaqen H’ghar_ … Her mind was still struggling to comprehend his sudden reappearance. His was the first familiar face she had seen since she had come to Braavos, and the shock of it had yet to dissipate. But beyond the shock was something much more substantial, and the girl struggled to comprehend it. Her heart beat hard in her chest, but somehow, she still felt calm and centred. It was not how she would have expected to feel, for while she hadn’t seen anyone from her past in person for years, she often dreamt of them, and when she did she always woke feeling… not quite herself. In the dreams, everyone else was as she remembered them, but she was reduced somehow. She was back to being a child, weak and helpless, nothing more than Arya Underfoot. And when the bad things started to happen to those she loved, she was powerless to stop them.

For all the training she had received in the House of Black and White, for all the deadly skills and strength she now possessed, when she dreamt of her past, she was always forced back into the role of the meek, useless onlooker. The wolf dreams had become less frequent the longer she stayed in Braavos, and what small strength they offered her had eventually begun to pale in comparison to the weakness she felt when she remembered her past. There was still rage and hate and a burning need for vengeance – _Ser Gregor, Dunsen, Raff the Sweetling, Ser Ilyn, Queen Cersei, valar morghulis_ – but she was also tormented by grief and the guilt of knowing that she should have done more to save those she loved. Throwing herself into her life and training here at the House of Black and White had been her way of combatting those emotions, but they never fully went away.

So then why was it that even when confronted so unexpectedly by Jaqen – a flesh and blood reminder of her old life – she did not feel any of those things? She still felt herself. She still felt strong and capable. More so, even. Jaqen had named her Arya Stark and she had not shied away from it. Instead, something inside her had stirred, urging her to reclaim that name and everything it stood for. To wear it like armour and wield it like a sword.

She realised, as she swung her legs onto her bed and lay her head down on the pillow, that this was always how she had felt around Jaqen, even all those years ago when she had still been just a young girl. Before she had met him, she had been broken from loss and betrayal, forced to live under the control of those over whom she believed she had no power. Jaqen showed her that she had the power to choose. He ripped away the veil of her self-imposed powerlessness and made her the Ghost of Harrenhal; enabled her to kill with a whisper. That had been the first time in her life that Arya had felt truly powerful, like she was able to take her life into her own hands rather than just being swept along by the whims of powerful men.

A smile crept across her lips at the thought, and her tired eyes fluttered shut. She fell into a deep sleep, and when her dreams took her back across the Narrow Sea and showed her the faces of her past, she did not cower in fear, but stood firm and faced them with all the strength she possessed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read, commented, bookmarked, and left kudos on this work so far! I never expected to get so much interest so quickly. It is much appreciated.
> 
> So, a few notes on this story:
> 
> First and foremost, all the typical disclaimers apply. I do not claim ownership over any of these characters or the world in which they live - all of it belongs to the incomparable George R.R. Martin. I will be introducing several OCs throughout this story but honestly, I would rather give him credit for those, too, if the alternative is getting sued. So yeah, I'm just writing this for fun, no copyright infringement intended. GRRM owns everything, including my soul :)
> 
> Second, I have big plans for this story so if you prefer to read short, straight-to-the-juicy-parts fanfiction, this might not be for you. There will of course be all the action, angst, and awesomeness that one would expect from a story about our favourite murderess, but it will all be interspersed throughout a pretty meaty plot. If that sounds good to you then welcome! We're gonna be in it for the long haul so buckle up, shit's gonna get bumpy.
> 
> Third, I understand that tags and warnings are important for helping people to avoid sensitive material and triggers, however I don't want to give away too many spoilers through explicit warnings. Suffice it to say, this story is taking place within the ASoIaF universe and, while it diverges somewhat from the existing canon (or rather, continues on from the already established canon of the books) it remains true to the, uh... 'values' of that universe. That means there will be violence, swearing, sexual themes, and generally a lot of heavy stuff (especially with the plot I have planned). So, read at your discretion. I will use my discretion when deciding which chapters require warnings.
> 
> Lastly, I'm going to do my best to update this story once a week - every Sunday if things go to plan. If I slip from that schedule I apologise, but please be patient; I have no plans to abandon this story, life just gets in the way sometimes.
> 
> Okay that's it, I'll try to keep notes to a minimum from now on. Happy reading!


	3. Stress Relief

Chapter III

Stress Relief

Morning light streamed in from arrow slit windows high up on the walls of the girl’s chamber. She rolled over and stretched, reaching her leg out from under the covers so that the rays washed over her skin. The movement pulled painfully on her achy muscles. She sat upright and a dull pain pulsed on her side. Pulling up her shift, she saw that an angry purple bruise had bloomed across her ribs.

_I guess last night wasn’t a dream_ _after all,_ she thought.

On the one hand, she was glad. If the events of the previous night were real, then so was her encounter with Jaqen. On the other hand, it meant she had likely failed her initiation and would have to face the castigation of her masters. Perhaps even the Kindly Man himself.

_Maybe I wouldn’t have failed if I’d known I was being tested,_ she grumbled internally. It wasn’t fair. She had worked so hard to get this far as an acolyte of the Faceless Men. To come so close to becoming a fully-fledged member of their Order and then fail because of their obsession with deceit and machination… it was just cruel.

The Faceless Masters had tested her in many ways without her knowledge, as they did with all those who wished to become Faceless Men. Though it had often grated on her, she had mostly learned to accept that it was just the way things were done in this elite and secretive order. But this time, she was struggling not to feel truly bitter.

She huffed with frustration and went to her wardrobe to pull out a fresh set of clothes. By the time she was done dressing, her stomach had started rumbling fiercely. She didn’t usually feel so hungry first thing in the morning. Last night had clearly worn her out.

The corridors of the temple were quiet as she exited her chamber. She supposed she had overslept slightly and everyone else was already in the dining hall. That was fine by her. She had no particular desire to run into any of her fellow acolytes. Small talk was bad enough on a normal day, but this morning in particular she was likely to bite off the head of anyone who tried to engage her with something as inane as _‘How are you feeling this morning, sister?’_ or _‘What do your duties require of you today, Cat?’_

Thankfully, she avoided any such encounters. All remained quiet until she reached the dining hall. It was nothing compared to the din that used to fill the Great Hall at Winterfell during meal times, but by the standards of the House of Black and White, the dining hall was positively raucous, echoing with the sounds of acolytes chatting and clacking tableware.

No one took note of her as she paused by the open doors and scanned the room. No sign of Jaqen, either at the acolytes’ tables or the masters’ table at the head of the room. Trying not to feel disappointed, she made her way to a quiet part of the room and sat down. Platters ran the length of the tables and she wasted no time in heaping piles of fried meat and eggs onto her plate.

She was in the middle of slathering some butter on a slice of still-warm bread when she saw out of the corner of her eye a figure clad in the black and white robes of a master enter the room. Trying not to be obvious about it, she flicked her eyes over to him. Again, she was disappointed: not Jaqen.

_He could have changed his face since last night_ , she supposed. _I hope he hasn’t, though._

Before she could wonder where in the hells that thought had come from, she realised she was being watched. She glanced across the room and met the sneering gaze of her least favourite person in the House of Black and White.

He was a thick-necked, brutish young man several years older than herself, perhaps two-and-twenty. He had come to the House around a year before she had and, though he was generally considered to be one of the more skilled acolytes, he soon grew resentful of how quickly her progress drew level with his own. Especially, she was convinced, because she was a girl. She had tried to stay out of his way and focus on her own training, but to no avail; acolytes often had to share lessons and fight one another to hone their skills. She had always suspected that as well as honing their skills, it was also an attempt to thin their numbers; weed out the weak.

The acolyte leering at her now was personally responsible for ‘weeding out’ several people from their class. Just as she was called the Cat because of her stealth and speed, he was called the Boar because of his strength and viciousness. He had injured some of their fellow acolytes badly enough that they could not continue to train. Others he had simply bullied and taunted until they broke down and quit. She was not sure what had happened to them afterwards. She found it hard to believe the Faceless Men would simply let them go back to the outside world, knowing all they did about the workings of the Order.

The Boar had tried his best to intimidate the Cat, but without success. Even more frustrating to him was the fact that he had never managed to significantly injure her in combat. She had hoped at first that she would earn his respect by resisting his bullying, but his hatred of her seemed only to grow over time. Eventually she had given up trying to make nice with him; he was determined to be her enemy and she would rise to the challenge if he insisted.

She stared him down now, sending her distaste arrowing across the dining hall towards him. His mouth twisted in an ugly imitation of a smile and she recognised the usual hatred in his face, but something else as well. His eyes glinted with a cold humour. He leant over to one of his friends – though in truth the Boar did not have friends so much as he had goons – and whispered something she couldn’t make out. The goon followed his gaze over to where she sat and laughed.

She wondered at his behaviour. The Boar never looked at her with anything less than contempt, but he had not been so brazen about it recently. _Not since I thrashed him so thoroughly in that sparring tourney last turn,_ she recalled with wicked satisfaction. _Why is he back to being his normal bastard self all of a sudden? In need of another beating, perhaps?_

With a jolt of dread, she thought that perhaps he knew about her failure last night and was mocking her for it. Surely not, though. She hadn’t even known about the test until after the fact, so how could he possibly have found out?

He seemed to know when the realisation dawned on her, his smug smile spreading into a wide, cruel grin. The goon laughed harder.

She fought the heat that was creeping up her neck and grappled with her anger and humiliation long enough to finish the food on her plate. Not out of hunger, for her appetite had fled along with her pride, but out of sheer stubbornness. She would not turn tail and run away crying as she had done so often as a child when Septa Mordane and Sansa had mocked her abysmal needlework.

That said, she did not hang around. As soon as she had swallowed her last bite she stood and strode from the hall, feeling the weight of their gazes on her back the whole way.

* * *

The girl passed the rest of the morning feeling as though she were in a state of limbo. She had not been approached by any Faceless Masters about the result of her test and she knew better than to approach one of them to ask directly. Acolytes, even higher ranking ones like herself, did not ask questions of the masters unless prompted. If there was something an acolyte was supposed to know, a master would seek them out, not the other way around.

Unsure of what to do other than wait to be informed of her fate, she went about her normal duties, lighting candles in the alcoves of the main temple chamber and polishing the statues that represented the many forms of the God of Death. Even at the level she had reached, these simple chores were still required of her. Over the years, she had learnt to find some degree of comfort in them, the repetition allowing her to quiet her mind.

By the time she had finished, however, her mind was not quiet but agitated. She was full of restless energy and growing increasingly frustrated at all the unanswered questions. Had she passed her test, or failed? If the latter, what was to become of her? Would she be allowed to remain here as an acolyte and continue training, or would they refuse to give her another chance? Did the Boar know something about it all that she did not, or was she simply being paranoid?

One question in particular – though she knew it was not the most important one – burned at the forefront of her mind: _Where was Jaqen?_

Her duties complete, she decided she needed to do something to work these anxieties out of her system, so she made her way to the weapons room where the acolytes had their sparring lessons. She was grateful to see that she had the whole place to herself. She shrugged off her acolyte robe and hung it on a hook by the door. Unencumbered by the heavy material and clad now in just a pair of loose-fitting trousers and a shirt, she began stretching out her tight muscles.

Once she felt loose enough, she plucked a longsword from one of the weapons racks. Her weapon of choice was still the slender Braavosi blade favoured by the city’s water dancers, but just now she wanted the weight of a longsword to work her muscles. She walked to the centre of the room and took up a starting position, sword raised in front of her, pausing only long enough to take a deep breath before launching into a series of manoeuvers.

The moves started off fairly simple, just standard sets of blocks, parries, and jabs, but then she found her rhythm and what had begun as an impressive but predictable display of swordsmanship unfolded into what can only be described as a dance. She twisted and spun around the room, a blur of black fabric and brown hair, blade glinting in the orange light of torches. Her movements were strong and controlled but infused with an elegance that highborn ladies and hired mercenaries alike would have envied.

She felt her worries melt away as she poured herself into the practice. She was not Arya anymore, she was not the Cat, she was not even no one. She simply was. All she knew was the pull of her muscles, the weight of the sword, the steadiness of the dirt floor beneath her feet.

Time slipped by unnoticed while she danced with her steel. She only stopped when her clothes were damp with sweat and her breathing was starting to become ragged. She hung the sword back on the rack and sat down on a bench to rest her tired body. As her heartbeat and breathing returned to normal, she noticed that she felt much better. Not entirely so – she felt like she could still benefit from some more intense stress relief – but it was a vast improvement over this morning nevertheless.

She began to feel chill as the sweat cooled on her skin, so she stood up to retrieve her robe, intending to return to her chamber and perhaps take a hot bath before she was required for her evening duties. Before she could put it on, however, a large shape filled the doorway.

“Ah, there you are, little Cat,” drawled the Boar. His two goons stepped into the room behind him. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Well, I hate to disappoint but I was just leaving,” she replied, immediately wary. “And you’re not invited to join me.”

The Boar stepped further into the room, his vastness taking up far more space than was reasonable. He was not as big as some other men she had met in her life, like the Hound, and certainly not his brother, the Mountain, but he was large enough that if he came much closer, she would have to start craning her neck to look at him.

“So testy today,” he said, clucking his tongue. “What’s wrong, little Cat? Couldn’t find any mice to kill last night?”

She bristled at the comment, unsure if he was making a jab at her about her test. Either way, though, she was determined not to rise to his bait. “I had no need for mice last night. Umma prepared a particularly delicious supper.” She pulled her robe off the hook and slung it over her shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have places to be.”

She turned to walk out the door, but the two goons blocked her path, arms folded across their chests. She scowled at them, but they only sneered back. “Tell your goons to move,” she said, half turning her head to glare at the Boar.

“I don’t think I will. You see, I thought we could do a little training together. You are so skilled, after all, I’m sure there is much you could teach me.”

Coming from any of the other acolytes, she might have thought it sincere, but his tone dripped with sarcasm and his eyes were full of menace. The way he held his frame hinted at his lust for violence.

The Cat remained calm. “I’m not going to fight you.”

She saw a brief flicker of rage twist his features before she turned away and began walking to the door again. The goons were still there, shoulder to shoulder, but she would knock their heads together if needs be.

“I’d have thought you’d jump at the chance to prove yourself after last night,” the Boar called after her.

She stilled. So he did know. _For a supposedly secretive guild of assassins, news sure does travel fast here,_ she thought bitterly.

He snickered, knowing he had hit a nerve. “You know, I always knew you’d fuck up eventually, but to do it so spectacularly, and after coming _so far_ … I mean, you’ve been here _five damn years_ training to be an assassin, and it turns out you don’t even have the balls to kill a man.” He barked a laugh, sharp as flint. She clenched her fists. “My mistake,” he continued. “Of course you don’t have the balls. That’s the whole problem, isn’t it? Maybe if you’d been born with them you wouldn’t be such a pathetic waste of flesh.”

His goons were laughing now, too. She had told herself she wasn’t going to give into his taunts, but this was too much. She was quivering with barely suppressed rage, her resolve very close to shattering.

“Let me pass,” she said, her voice strained. But the Boar wasn’t done yet.

“I have to know,” he said. “How many masters did you have to fuck for them to let you stay here this long?”

She threw her robe onto the bench and turned to face him, her grey eyes burning with icy fire. She had found herself a more intense form of stress relief, after all.


	4. Councils and Catfights

Chapter IV

Councils and Catfights

The Faceless Man known as Jaqen H’ghar by one lovely girl sat at an immense round table, half weirwood and half ebony. As with the main doors to the House of Black and White, a moon face was carved into the centre, straddling the line where the two woods met; weirwood on ebony, ebony on weirwood. This was the Chamber of the Faceless Council, and for the moment it was cool and quiet. The Lorathi assassin had arrived to the meeting early in order to get accustomed to the space. It could be an intimidating setting, and he had not been here for several years.

On this occasion especially, he wished to be calm and prepared, for the Council was gathering to discuss the trial undertaken the previous night by the acolyte known as the Cat; the girl whom the Lorathi had first known, and still thought of in unguarded moments, as Arya Stark. He wondered how they would react to the news that she had failed the test – at least in part. Perhaps they would regret allowing him to oversee the trial, though they had all agreed to it.

_“A man would like to volunteer himself for this task,” he had said._

_“But, brother,” his sister objected, “you have never been one of the girl’s masters, and you are only very recently returned from your mission. Surely another would be better suited.”_

_“This is true, but it seems like the natural conclusion of things. A man was, after all, the one who set the girl on this path. He should like to be there when she comes to its end.”_

_“Such sentimentality does not become us, brother,” said the one whose face was that of a kind old Westerosi man. He was known among the Faceless Men as the Elder, for he was by far the oldest member of their ranks. His words sounded like a warning, but there was a small smile on his face and a genuine fondness in his eyes. “However, I believe you are right. It seems only fitting. As long as no one has any objections, you may oversee the girl’s test.”_

None had objected, and it had been decided. Still, the Lorathi wondered if they would blame his influence somehow. He hoped not, as he intended to propose something at this meeting.

Soon enough, his brothers – and one sister – began to file into the room and take their seats. There were twenty seats already arranged around the table, and many more lined the far wall of the chamber should there be need of them, but only a dozen Faceless Men were currently in residence in Braavos. The rest were away on missions and could not be present.

“ _Valar morghulis_ ,” the Elder intoned by way of convening the Council.

“ _Valar dohaeris_ ,” came the solemn reply.

“Let us not delay. Brother,” the Elder said, turning towards the Lorathi. “Tell us about our Cat.”

He did as he was bid, giving a full and honest report of the girl’s performance during the test. He noted her hesitation in delivering the gift, but heavily emphasised the impressive skill she had shown. Her stealth and ability to observe without being observed were excellent, her Braavosi (which he had overheard when she spoke to the innkeeper) was without flaw, and her fighting skills far surpassed the level of a mere acolyte. The only thing he omitted from his retelling was the more personal elements of their conversation after he had revealed his identity.

He noted, with a flicker of something which felt like pride, that none of the Faceless Men looked surprised as he praised the Cat’s skills. Clearly, they were all well aware of her prowess.

_Of course they are aware,_ he thought. A memory surfaced of Arya Stark at Harrenhal, the knife in her hand dripping with the blood of Bolton guards, a gleam of triumph in her eye as she surveyed the ruin she had reaped. He had seen then what she could become: a weapon without equal. That was why he had given her the iron coin, taught her the words she would need to find the House of Black and White. _And to find me,_ his subconscious added, but he pushed the thought away as quickly as it had arisen.

The Council fell into a ponderous silence as he concluded his report. He glanced around the table to try and read their reactions, but they were Faceless Men, all, and thus inscrutable. After a few long moments, the Elder spoke.

“There is no doubt the Cat is skilled. It is well known by us as well as her fellow acolytes, and has earned her respect and hatred in equal measure.”

The members of the Council nodded in agreement, though the Lorathi was slightly concerned about that last admission. Respect was good, but it was a dangerous thing to be hated by anyone trained by the Faceless Order. He imagined the girl’s enemies would find that out sooner or later, remembering her whispered prayer, the names she swore to strike from her list with bloody vengeance. He pushed that thought away as well, because he knew such vendettas were not permitted by the Order. Entertaining the idea was foolish.

“However, her hesitation is what concerns me,” the Elder continued. More nods and murmurs of assent.

“It would seem she still struggles with becoming no one. After all this time, I have to wonder if she will ever be ready,” their sister said. She was small and stick thin, looking for all the world like a child, though she was in fact over forty years old now. The last time the Lorathi had been at the temple, around three years ago, he had overheard some of the acolytes refer to her as the Waif. He had been most amused, thinking it a very fitting title for the wisp of a woman. He had thought of his sister by that name ever since.

A heavy silence fell in the wake of her words. The Lorathi knew what they were all were thinking. The Cat, for all her obvious and unparalleled talent, would not be able to serve if she could not cross this last hurdle. It was time to make his proposal.

“A man will train her, if the Council permits it. He will make her ready.”

Eleven Faceless Men turned to face him all at once, but he remained calm even under their scrutiny. The Elder, more than the others, looked thoughtful.

“You think this thing can be done, brother?” he asked.

“A man has said,” the Lorathi replied. “He believes the girl is very close, and it would be a shame to allow such talent to go to waste.”

“This issue was discussed many years ago, brother, when the girl was first initiated as an acolyte.” The man who spoke now was one of the more seasoned members of the Order, though nowhere near the Elder in years. He was a large man, originally from Pentos, and though his head was bald, he still grew a beard in the forked style of that city. The Lorathi noted, however, that it had greyed some since he had last been in Braavos. “It was decided,” the Pentoshi continued, “that since you were the one who, as you said at our last meeting, ‘set the girl on this path,’ it would be unwise to have you train her as well. Given the girl’s past, how many mentors and father figures she has had ripped away from her, the risk of her becoming attached to you was too high.”

The man to the Pentoshi’s left chimed in. He was a beautiful Lyseni whose spun-gold hair had not faded as he entered his middle years. “Indeed,” he said in a soft voice. “And you agreed with our assessment, brother. Besides, you are still young, and we have need of your talents elsewhere. Yes, it would be a shame to waste the Cat’s talents, but to see you confined to the temple by your obligations as her master… That, too, would be a dreadful waste.”

The Lorathi dipped his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. “A man did indeed agree to keep his distance from the girl, to not make himself known to her while he was in Braavos. It was not a difficult promise to keep, since a man has been away from the House for the majority of the girl’s time here. Now, though, the last of a man’s long missions is complete, he will be here for the foreseeable future, and, after last night’s trial, the girl is aware of his presence. It will be difficult to avoid contact at this point, and doing so would likely only cause her to question _why_ such contact is being avoided.

“Also, while a man agreed with the Council’s decision five years ago, the girl has had much time under the supervision of other masters, and yet clearly still requires guidance. Perhaps a man’s past connection with the girl is what is needed to get through to her, help her to overcome this last barrier.”

Having said his part, the Lorathi sat back and let the Council discuss. They went back and forth for a time, almost everyone offering something to the discussion. The meetings of Faceless Men were not usually so animated; the matter of Arya Stark – _the Cat_ – was evidently considered important by the Council. The only person who stayed silent was the Elder, though he listened intently and seemed to be weighing the options in his mind.

Eventually it was decided that a vote should be taken. The Lorathi, being the one proposing the issue, was not allowed to partake, which meant that there were eleven voters, an odd number that would allow for a decisive outcome so long as no one abstained. No one did, and the result was five against – including the Pentoshi and Lyseni masters – and six for – including the Waif and the Elder. Normally such a small margin would have been cause for further discussion, but though all Faceless Men were considered equal once they were inducted into the Order, the Elder’s opinion held a good deal of weight amongst them. His vote in favour of the proposal was, in the end, what settled the issue, and the Council moved on to other things.

“The other issue we must discuss,” said the Pentoshi, “is the acolyte known as the Boar. His skills are also of a very high level and the time for his trial must surely be approaching.”

The Waif scoffed. The Lorathi looked at her, his curiosity piqued. He did not know of an acolyte who went by this name, but he must be noteworthy to have elicited such a strong reaction from his usually imperturbable sister.

“I am sorry, brother,” she said. “I know the boy has been your apprentice, and you have honed his skills well, but I think we all know what the result of his trial would be.”

“Please elaborate, sister,” the Pentoshi replied, a subtle edge to his voice.

“Certainly, he would not hesitate as the Cat did. But if we are to criticise the Cat for her _reluctance_ to give the gift, I think we would have to criticise the Boar for his _eagerness_.”

“I must agree with our sister,” said the Lyseni. “The Boar is even further from becoming no one than the Cat. His actions are still ruled by ego and temper, and he too often mistakes ruthlessness for cruelty. He is not ready.”

Nobody tried to refute this statement. The Pentoshi looked mildly displeased, but even he could come up with no reasonable counter argument.

_It does not bode well if even the boy’s master cannot defend his temperament_ , the Lorathi thought.

The meeting drew to a close soon after that. “ _Valar morghulis_ ,” said the Waif this time as they all stood.

“ _Valar dohaeris_ ,” the Lorathi murmured, his voice joining with those of his brothers to echo around the chamber. The Faceless Men filed from the room as the echo faded, but the Elder remained behind and gestured for the Lorathi to come speak to him.

He approached and gave a small bow. “Master.”

“I have not been your master for many a year, my boy,” the Elder said, his wrinkles deepening as he smiled.

“And a man has not been a boy for many a year, yet his master still calls him so.”

“Just so, my boy, just so.” The Elder chuckled, the sound like logs on a crackling fire, and the Lorathi realised how very old his former master was becoming.

“You wished to speak with me,” he prompted, dropping his usual Lorathi speech pattern for emphasis.

“Yes, indeed. I want to make sure you are prepared for this task you have volunteered for.”

“A man has said he will do this thing.”

“Hmm,” the Elder mused. “The girl is talented to be sure, but there is fire in her. I am still not sure it can be tamed.”

“There was a time when a man would have said the same of a certain boy he were training,” he countered, referring to the time when he was still the Elder’s young apprentice.

“This is true. You were all aflame… and such dark flames, they were. That fire in your soul, there were times I thought it would surely consume you. But you learned to control it. I do not know that you can control _hers_. I do not wish to see you burn again, my boy.”

There was genuine concern in the older man’s voice, his eyes full of intensity. The Lorathi found it… disturbing. He had always had a good rapport with the Elder, and their history as master and apprentice meant they knew each other well, but even so, such heartfelt admissions were rare. And what exactly was he warning him about, anyway?

Before he could question his old master further, the Elder brushed past him and headed for the door, signalling the end of the conversation.

“Take care, brother, and do not fail,” he called over his shoulder, his voice betraying no hint of the emotion he had just divulged.

The Lorathi stood there watching as the Elder’s ancient form retreated down the torch lit corridor, not moving until he had been entirely swallowed by the darkness. Their conversation had put him on edge, posed questions to which he had no answers. He filed them away for later consideration and left the chamber, pulling the heavy doors closed behind him.

His questions could wait. For now, it was time to go and find a certain Cat.

* * *

The girl proved more difficult to find than he had expected. It was past time for the acolytes to take their midday meal, so he went to the dining hall first. He scanned the room from the doorway but could see no trace of her long dark hair. He checked the kitchens, the main temple chamber, and the acolytes’ classrooms, all to no avail, before it occurred to him to check the weapons room.

_Perhaps a girl is honing those skills for which she is so respected and hated,_ he thought as he retraced his steps to the main temple chamber and took a set of stairs leading down.

He descended into the earth below the temple, his finely tuned assassin’s senses registering the almost imperceptible changes in air temperature and pressure. On the main floor of the temple one could occasionally get a hint of natural light from a high, narrow window, or feel a slight breeze as someone entered through the large front doors, allowing a salty wind off the lagoon to sweep through the corridors. On the lower levels, though, everything was still. There was a heaviness to the air and, though the in-use corridors were lit by torches, the unused ones were left submerged in a true darkness that was almost palpable. The sun had never touched this place.

As he walked, he wondered what he would say to the girl. She had asked him the most obvious questions last night – _Where were you? Why was I hired to kill you? Did I pass the test?_ – and he had answered her truthfully, though not always completely. In her state of shock, the girl had not pressed him for too many details. He doubted it would be so easy to evade her questions now that she had had time to mull things over.

The corridor he was walking along split. The left fork would take him to the weapons room, the right further into the bowels of the temple. He was about to turn onto the left-hand corridor, but stopped abruptly when he heard voices coming from the other direction.

“You’re sure she’s down here?” someone said. The voice was male, deep, a hint of eagerness underlying his brusque tone.

“Has to be,” came another voice. Also male, but not as deep. “We checked everywhere else.”

“Little bitch is probably hiding,” said the first voice.

He frowned as he listened. Who were these people? Certainly, they were not Faceless Men, for no Faceless Man would talk in such an openly aggressive manner; it revealed far too much emotion. More importantly, were they talking about Arya?

_Not Arya. The Cat. Here, she is the Cat_ , he told himself. He had to be careful about such things, especially if he was to train the girl to be _no one_.

He stepped into a shadowed alcove from which he could see the opening of the corridor. After a moment, he saw three figures wearing acolyte’s robes emerge from the right fork and stalk down the corridor towards the weapons room. He thought the first voice he had heard likely belonged to the largest of the three, who appeared to be leading the other two. He peered around the corner and saw the three men duck into the weapons room. He heard the first voice say, “Ah, there you are, little Cat,” before his voice could no longer be clearly made out.

So, she was down here, after all, and these men were after her. A small kernel of worry settled in the Lorathi’s chest as he remembered what his brothers had said in the Council meeting about the Cat being hated by some of her peers. He followed the corridor towards the weapons room, resolving that he would not interfere with whatever was going on unless he had to. After last night, he knew the girl could handle herself. Still, he wanted to be close by in case she needed his help. The voices came back into his hearing range as he neared the doorway.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have places to be.” The Lorathi would know her voice anywhere, strong and clear as always in spite of the three large men bearing down on her. “Tell your goons to move.”

“I don’t think I will,” said the leader, his violent intent becoming clearer from the tone of his voice. “You see, I thought we could do a little training together. You are so skilled, after all, I’m sure there is much you could teach me.”

“I’m not going to fight you,” she replied.

_Good_. _These brutes are beneath you, lovely girl._

He had reached the entrance to the weapons room and could see that the two smaller men - the ‘goons’, as she had rightly called them – blocked the door so that she could not leave. He hung back in the shadows so that no one would catch sight of him.

“I’d have thought you’d jump at the chance to prove yourself after last night,” the leader taunted.

The Lorathi’s eyes narrowed. How did this acolyte know about the girl’s trial? He had spoken of it to no one outside of the Council Chamber. His suspicion built into anger as the acolyte’s taunting continued.

“You know, I always knew you’d fuck up eventually, but to do it so spectacularly, and after coming _so far_ … I mean, you’ve been here _five damn years_ training to be an assassin, and it turns out you don’t even have the balls to kill a man. My mistake, of course you don’t have the balls. That’s the whole problem, isn’t it? Maybe if you’d been born with them you wouldn’t be such a pathetic waste of flesh.”

He broke off, laughing, the other two joining in, and the Lorathi saw the Cat clench her fists, signalling her rising anger. He could not blame her; he could feel his own blood heating, his own fingers itching to reach for his blade, silence this vile man. The only thing that stayed his hand was his respect for the girl and her ability to fight her own battles, or walk away from them should she choose.

“Let me pass,” she said through gritted teeth. He felt a surge of pride, mingled with a little disappointment that the acolyte would not get what he deserved.

“I have to know. How many masters did you have to fuck for them to let you stay here this long?”

The poisonous words tumbled from the acolyte’s grinning mouth, sealing his fate. The girl’s grey eyes ignited, and the hairs on the back of the Lorathi’s neck stood on end, a small shiver running through him as a wave of cold fury rolled off her. The two goons took a small step backwards, but they were not her targets. Not her immediate ones, anyway. She dropped her robe and turned to face her aggressor.

The man raised his fists, looking delighted that his prey had taken the bait. There was such hatred in those eyes, a feverish desire for blood. It occurred to the Lorathi that this acolyte was very likely the same one discussed by the Council earlier. _The Boar_. If the testimony of the other Faceless Men was anything to go by – and it usually was – this acolyte was skilled. That, coupled with his obvious advantage in size and strength, meant the Cat would have her work cut out for her in this fight. Then again, he knew what the girl could do. He lifted a hand to his cheek where the cut from their altercation still smarted. He had no doubt she could take on this Boar. Whether she could defend against the other two at the same time was less certain, but the goons showed no sign of moving from their position by the door. It seemed their role was simply to prevent her retreating.

As the two acolytes launched into their fight, however, it quickly became apparent that the girl had no intention of retreating. The Boar moved first, rushing at her with fists raised – likely in an attempt to make her balk – but she evaded him with ease, leaping out of his path at the last second so that he had no time to alter his course. He lashed around, hounding her across the room in a furious melee.

To an ordinary onlooker, it would appear that the Cat was being forced to retreat, but the Lorathi knew better. She was toying with the larger man, letting him pour his energy into chasing her around the room while she conserved her own, dodging, ducking and _dancing_ just out of his reach, occasionally managing to dart inside his guard and deliver a few quick blows to his torso before leaping back again. The Faceless Man marvelled at the grace with which she moved; he had not been able to appreciate it last night, so occupied had he been with fending her off. Now that he was not on the receiving end of the girl’s aggressions, he could be properly awed. She whirled around the room in a flurry of limbs, dark hair streaming behind her, face a mask of deadly focus. It was… magnificent.

He was mildly impressed that the Boar managed to keep up with the Cat’s speed, in spite of his size. On top of that, he was certainly able to take a hit. He did little more than grunt when her blows found their mark. But though he was just fast enough to parry her attacks, he had not yet been fast enough to land any of his own.

No sooner than he had had that thought, the Lorathi was startled by a cry of pain from the girl. One of the Boar’s fists had connected with her ribs. She had managed to mostly dodge it, so it had been but a glancing blow, but her face contorted in pain and she staggered sideways, clutching her side. The reaction seemed disproportionate, and he felt a twinge of guilt as he realised that she was likely suffering from their fight last night. He recalled that he had kneed her in her side. She had been winded from the blow and he had no doubt it would have left bruising across her ribs.

The Boar took advantage of her pain and swung a punch at her head, but the girl recovered quickly, ducking under his arm and stepping inside his guard, pummelling his ribs with a burst of ferocious punches. The Boar thrust his elbow backwards, aiming for the side that appeared to be causing her pain, but she spun deftly out of the way, bringing her leg up and slamming it into the back of his knees so that he dropped to the floor, leaving him at just the right height for her to deliver another devastating roundhouse kick straight to his kidneys.

The Lorathi felt a rush of wicked pleasure as the Boar bellowed. He knew exactly how much pain a blow like that could inflict. He tried to measure his reaction, to rule his emotions – for _no one_ would certainly not care about the outcome of this fight – but found he could not, or rather, that he did not want to just now. The Boar deserved every ounce of that pain and more besides.

It appeared that the pain did not weaken the Boar, however, but enrage him. He pushed to his feet and rounded on the girl with a snarl. They began exchanging blows again, and for a moment he dropped his guard, letting the girl land a solid blow on his torso, but also freeing up one of his arms so that he could return one of his own. His fist smashed into her stomach, doubling her over, and before she could right herself, even catch a breath, he brought his other fist down across her face.

The Lorathi forced himself to remain still as the girl was sent sprawling across the dirt of the training room floor. His jaw was clenched tight as he watched her drag herself to her knees and spit out a mouthful of blood. The Boar was smirking, looking very pleased with himself as the girl spluttered.

_Get up_ , he beseeched her silently from the shadows. She stayed down, but shifted slightly so that her injured ribs were exposed, an easy target. She glared up at the Boar, eyes like murder, daring him to come closer.

Obliging her, the Boar rushed forwards, lining himself up to kick her in the precise spot she had left open for him. Perhaps had he not been so blinded by his emotions, he would have noticed the trap she had laid, but instead he saw only the opportunity to inflict pain. The girl gathered herself into a crouch, a cobra ready to strike, and leapt not away from her attacker, but at him, dodging at the last second and sweeping her leg out to tangle with his. His momentum and huge size worked against him and he went down hard, a cloud of dust billowing around him.

He rolled over and she leapt on him, straddling his chest and pinning his arms to the floor. There was none of the hesitation she had displayed last night. As soon as she had the opportunity for the decisive blow, she took it, drawing back her arm and smashing her fist into his nose. There was a loud _crunch_ and a spurt of blood. His head smacked against the floor and his eyes rolled back.

The goons went to step forward, ready to either help their leader or attack the Cat, perhaps both, but the Lorathi reached out and clamped his hands down on their shoulders. They spun on him, fists raised, but their faces blanched when they saw his black and white master’s robes. He jerked his head and they scurried off down the corridor, all concern for the Boar apparently gone. He moved forward to lean against the doorframe, though neither the Cat nor the Boar noticed him.

The Cat had stood up, moving back a few paces to allow her opponent to stand up again, if he was able. He did so after a moment, and stood glaring at her, his face covered in blood and lips peeled back in a snarl.

“Are we done here?” she demanded.

“You sure are,” he spat. “No way the Council will keep you around now that they’ve seen what a pathetic little _girl_ you are. You got this far with people thinking of you as _the Cat_ , but now they’re going to see that all you really are is a _pussy_ , a mewing little _cun_ —”

Before he could finish that last vile statement, the girl launched herself at him, leveraging herself on one of the benches – much as she had done in the alleyway last night – and jumping high. She wrapped her legs tightly around the Boar’s head and neck so that the aforementioned body part collided with his broken mess of a nose. He staggered, his cry of pain and surprise muffled, and she used his shock and loss of balance to her advantage, throwing her bodyweight backwards, arching her torso and reaching her hands towards the floor, following the momentum through with her legs. It was an incredible display of agility and strength, and the Boar was once again sent tumbling – literally – head over heels. He crashed a few feet away, moaning pitifully, while the Cat gracefully rectified herself and brushed off her palms.

The Lorathi crossed his arms across his chest, struggling to contain the laughter that wanted to burst out of him. He ruled his face; as much as he wanted to cheer for the girl’s victory, he needed to be the master now. He cleared his throat pointedly and the girl spun around, eyes widening as she caught sight of him leaning in the doorway, the slightest hint of a smirk on his face.

“Jaqen! Uh… how long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough that a man will not believe a girl if she says the boy was like this when she found him.”

She flushed pink – well, pinker, since the fight had already brought a good deal of colour to her pale cheeks – and started trying to explain. He held up a hand to quiet her and moved into the room.

“A man can see very well what has happened here.” He looked her up and down, eyes settling on her cheek where the Boar had punched her. “Is a girl badly hurt?”

She shook her head.

“Good. Then a girl will wait here for a man’s return.”

“Where are you going?” she asked, sounding worried.

He looked down at the Boar. A subtle downturn at the corner of his mouth conveyed his distaste, but he answered in a measured tone. “A man will take this boy to the infirmary so that he may have his hurts mended.”

“I can help,” she said.

“A girl will _wait here_. Do not move until a man returns.”

With that he hauled the Boar to his feet – a considerable task given his size and half-conscious state – and marched him out the door. The girl must have assumed they were out of hearing range as they passed the doorway into the corridor, but the Lorathi’s ears were sharp, so he heard her swear softly.

“Hells,” she muttered, and his smirk returned.

The Boar maintained a sullen silence for the majority of the walk to the infirmary, though this was largely due to the fact that his brain had been thoroughly rattled and he couldn’t talk without causing himself significant pain. The blood had stopped flowing freely from his nose, but the entire midsection of his face was swelling up. He looked like one of the bloated corpses they sometimes pulled from the lagoon down by where the bravos liked to hold their duels.

“It was self-defence, you know,” the Boar mumbled after a while.

“What?”

“The Cat has it in for me,” he insisted. “Has done since the day she got here.”

Clearly, the acolyte had no idea just how long the Faceless Man had been watching and listening from the shadows outside the weapons room. He decided not to enlighten him just yet, instead fixing his gaze back on the path ahead and increasing their pace, forcing the injured man to walk much faster than he would have liked. In his peripheral vision, he saw the Boar scowl, clearly irritated by the Faceless Man’s refusal to believe his lies. He kept pushing.

“I’m serious. I didn’t want to fight her, but she’s vicious. If I hadn’t defended myself I might be dead right now.”

“Yes, a man imagines the Cat would have little trouble killing a Boar should she wish it.”

The acolyte did not react to the name, so the Lorathi was proved correct in his assumption that this man was, in fact, the Boar he had been told about earlier. After what he had just witnessed, he no longer wondered at his master’s inability to defend him to the Council.

“So you agree with me then – she’s rabid. Should be put down if you ask me.”

“No, a man does not agree. In fact, a man finds your opinions on the Cat to be rather contradictory. Earlier you said how skilled she was, and how she could surely teach you much. Why would a boar wish to be taught anything by a rabid cat?”

The Boar’s steps faltered and he gaped, realising what those words meant. Realising that he had been caught in a lie by a Faceless Master. His brazen attempt to lay blame at the Cat’s feet had led him right into a trap, and now the snare was closing around his neck.

“You—you were there the whole time?” Again, the Lorathi said nothing, and the Boar’s anger rose. “Who even are you? You’re not any Faceless Man I know.”

The Lorathi laughed humourlessly. “A man is disappointed. He thought surely an acolyte of this temple would know…” He leaned in, dropping his voice to a confidential whisper. “Faceless Men have a certain set of skills that allow them to avoid being known by others.”

The Boar scowled. It was evident he did not enjoy being on the receiving end of taunts. The Lorathi turned on his heel and started towards the infirmary again, the order to follow implicit. After a tense minute of silent walking, the Boar spoke again.

“I don’t care if you heard what I said,” he declared. “I stand by it. That girl doesn’t belong here. There’s a reason we are called the Faceless _Men_.”

The Lorathi rounded on him. “ _We?_ The last a man heard, you had not been given the title of Faceless Man. Were a man in your position, he would be less concerned with the doings of a certain Cat, and more concerned about his own place within this Order. When in the service of the Many-Faced God, the number of _balls_ a person has is of little import compared to their _skill_.”

He grabbed the acolyte by the arm before he had a chance to respond and hauled him around the last corner to the infirmary. The elderly physician’s eyes widened as the Boar was shoved unceremoniously through the door.

“What happened?” the old man asked of the Lorathi, who had his back to them and was scanning the shelves.

“This boy was taught a valuable lesson by a fellow acolyte,” he replied, all the earlier hints of emotion disappeared. His tone was now one of disinterest. “One he would do well to remember.”

He grabbed a couple of paper packets from one of the shelves and walked from the room, but not before catching the murderous glint in the Boar’s eyes.


	5. Instincts

Chapter V

Instincts

“Hells,” the girl muttered as Jaqen and the Boar disappeared into the corridor.

This was just what she needed. _First I fail my initiation, now I get caught brawling with a fellow acolyte._ What must Jaqen think of her? What would the Council think? Maybe the Boar was right; maybe she would be thrown out. Or worse.

She chewed on her lip, an old habit of Arya Stark’s that still resurfaced when she was anxious, but the movement caused pain to shoot through her cheek. The Boar really hadn’t held back when he punched her. She could still taste blood in her mouth. She ran her tongue across the inside of her cheek and, unsurprisingly, felt a gash where her teeth had split the flesh.

She began to pace the room, but her nervous energy refused to dissipate. What was taking so long? The infirmary wasn’t that far away. She threw herself onto a bench with a huff and closed her eyes, attempting to find stillness. Slowly but surely, her breathing slowed and her mind cleared.

“If a girl wishes to nap, a man can come back later.”

Her eyes flew open and she jumped to her feet, spinning to face Jaqen where he leant in the doorway. Familiarity hummed through her. It had been so many years since their first meeting, so many years since she had seen him, and yet he looked just as she remembered him from Harrenhal. The Bolton armour was gone, but he still had that aura of quiet self-confidence about him that she had found so infuriating and intriguing.

He glanced at the floor where her pacing had left tracks back and forth across the room. “Was a girl so anxious for a man’s return that she had to pace so fretfully?”

“Is the Boar alright?” she asked. Truthfully, she didn’t care, but she didn’t know what else to say.

“A girl did not seem so concerned for his wellbeing a few minutes ago,” he replied, raising an eyebrow.

“I know it is unacceptable to fight with one of my brothers,” she said. Images of her real brothers flashed through her mind: Bran before the fall, running and leaping with carefree abandon; Rickon’s impish grin as Robb slung him over one shoulder and spun around, laughing; Jon giving her Needle, ruffling her hair and calling her ‘little sister.’ Resentment flared hot and bright in her chest at having to call the Boar her brother. She cast her eyes to the floor so Jaqen would not see the pain on her face. “I will accept whatever punishment is due.”

“Lovely girl,” Jaqen said softly. “A man heard everything that Boar said to you. A man does not blame a girl for defending her honour.”

She looked up and met his eye, searching his face for signs of deceit, but could find none. He was regarding her intensely, but with no hint of reproach. Of all the scenarios she had imagined, this was not one of them. Perhaps it was a foolish thought to have, for she knew that Faceless Men only had one allegiance, and that was to the Many-Faced God, but it seemed that even after all these years, Jaqen was on her side.

She felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. “But ‘a girl has no honour’, remember?” she said, echoing the accusation he had made of her at Harrenhal after she had given the assassin his own name. _I’m not joking_ , she had insisted. _A man can go kill himself_.

Jaqen snorted, a smile wrinkling his blue eyes at the corners. “Just so.”

“So… I’m not in trouble for fighting the Boar?”

“No. A girl had her hand forced. A man witnessed this, and will testify to it if necessary.”

She sighed with relief, tension bleeding out of her shoulders. But a tingle of irritation remained. “I can’t believe you stood there and watched all that happen,” she said, her admonishment clear.

“A man had faith that a girl could handle whatever that brute threw at her. A man is well aware of a girl’s capabilities,” he said, tilting his head so she could clearly see the cut along his cheekbone. She felt a stirring of guilt, though she wasn’t sure why; it wasn’t like she had done it in cold blood. It must have shown on her face, because Jaqen chuckled. “Worry not, lovely girl. A man heals quickly.”

“I’m not worried,” she grumbled.

“Good. A girl has her own hurts to concern herself with.”

He came and sat next to her on the bench and pulled two paper packets from the pocket of his robe.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“One is powdered turmeric, which a girl is to mix into a paste and apply to any cuts and abrasions. The other is dried comfrey. Steep some of the leaves in hot water and make them into a compress. It will help with any bruising and swelling.”

She stared at him but did not reach out to take the packets. She was a little perplexed at his behaviour. True, she had been knocked about somewhat by the Boar, but no Faceless Master had ever offered her medical assistance over such minor injuries. Could it be that he had noticed the injury to her side which had hindered her in the fight? If he had noticed, he would also have realised it was him who had done the damage. Apparently, she realised with amusement, she was not the only one who felt a little guilty about their fight last night.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why does a girl smirk like that?”

“Now who’s worried?” she teased. “This isn’t necessary, you know. I’m fine.”

“Either a girl can administer these remedies herself or a man can escort her to the infirmary where she may occupy a bed next to her good friend the Boar.”

She huffed an irritated sigh but took the packets without further protest.

“Thank you,” she mumbled. Jaqen inclined his head in acknowledgement and they fell into silence.

“Jaqen,” she continued uncertainly after a moment. “Some of the things he said – the Boar, I mean. I know he was trying to goad me into a fight, but it seemed like he knew about my trial. And the things he said… well, it didn’t sound good…” she trailed off, the unspoken question hanging in the air between them.

“The news is not all bad,” Jaqen answered cryptically.

“What does that mean?” She gazed at him, grey eyes wide and imploring.

“Not here, lovely girl. Not now. We will discuss these things, but a man is also concerned about the Boar’s apparent knowledge of a girl’s trial. A man thinks it better if we talk later, away from prying eyes and ears.”

“I’ve waited all day,” she protested, voice bordering on a whine.

“Then a girl can wait a little longer,” Jaqen said, unmoved. Then, seeing the worry on her face, he reached out and used a thumb to smooth her furrowed brow. It worked; the girl’s face instantly went slack with surprise at the contact. “Be at ease, lovely girl. Do you trust a man?”

She blinked, caught off guard by the question. Trust was not something that was encouraged in the House of Black and White, and even before she had arrived at the House, she had tended out of necessity to be wary of others. Still, she felt her answer take shape somewhere deep inside her, rising up from a place of pure instinct.

“Yes,” she said simply. Foolish, perhaps, but true. “I trust you.”

He smiled, and she thought maybe there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Then a girl will meet a man in the holy sanctum tonight as soon as she finishes her duties.”

With that, he rose and walked from the room, leaving her alone with her questions again.

* * *

The Cat’s duties that afternoon required her to help in the kitchens. She assisted Umma and the cooks with preparing the evening meal, peeling potatoes, washing vegetables and deboning fish while the plump woman busied herself with overseeing everyone’s progress.

“No, no, no,” Umma groused, swatting at a young acolyte’s hand. “I can forgive inexperience, child, but I will not tolerate such flagrant disobedience. If you want to stay, you will roll pastry _the way I showed you_.”

The poor boy just gawked at her in a way the Cat recognised, for she had given the domineering cook the same look many times when she first arrived at the temple. It was a look that meant the boy did not yet speak Braavosi and therefore had no idea what Umma was saying. The Cat kept her eyes firmly fixed on the carrots she was peeling so that Umma would not catch sight of her amused smile. She had grown fond of the matronly woman over the years, but she knew that if Umma caught her laughing at her disciplinary attempts, she would certainly get her ears boxed.

She finished peeling and chopping the last of the carrots and caught Umma’s attention. The cook bustled over and inspected her work. She hummed in approval, but when she looked up her gaze darkened. She grabbed the girl’s chin, making her wince in pain.

“What happened to your face, child?” she demanded, inspecting the side of her face where evidence of the Boar’s beating now bloomed in shades of violent blue and purple.

“It’s nothing, Umma.” She gently pried the woman’s hand away.

“It doesn’t look like nothing to me,” the cook persisted. “Was it one of those awful masters? Or an acolyte? Tell me who did this thing, I’ll make sure they get half-rations for the rest of the month.”

The girl couldn’t help but smile as the woman puffed herself up like a mother hen preparing to defend one of her brood. The turn of phrase she used also reminded her of Jaqen at Harrenhal. _“Give a man a name.”_ She giggled, picturing Umma swaggering about in Bolton armour with a sword strapped to her side.

“Don’t worry, Umma.” She leaned in close and gave her a mischievous smile. “Half-rations would be a blessing compared to what I did to the perpetrator.”

“Hah! I don’t doubt it,” guffawed the cook. “I pity the man who tries to take advantage of you, little Cat.”

“Save your pity for those who deserve it, Umma, like that poor little acolyte who cannot yet roll pastry,” she jested.

“Useless boy,” Umma tutted in irritation.

“He will learn. There was a time you despaired at my pastry-rolling abilities, too.”

“Yes, but you were a quick learner, not like that dolt.” She heaved a long-suffering sigh.

“You are too kind to me, Umma, and too cruel to everyone else. Is there anything else you require of me this evening?”

“No, my dear, you may go,” Umma said with a smile. “ _Valar morghulis_.”

“ _Valar dohaeris_ ,” she replied, twirling towards the door.

“And try to stay out of trouble!” Umma yelled after her.

“I always do!” she called over her shoulder with a laugh.

She had to stop herself from running to meet Jaqen. His earlier reassurances had soothed her worries somewhat, but she was still anxious to know what he had to say to her. She hurried through the halls of the temple and down several sets of stone stairs to reach the holy sanctum. It was located on the lowest level of the temple, far below the earth, and the girl’s legs burned with exertion by the time she reached the bottom of the last staircase. She didn’t look forward to the return trip.

She stepped across the threshold of the sanctum, shivering a little as she did so, though only partly from cold. It was a huge, cavernous space, pillars of hewn rock rising up and up until they disappeared into blackness, the ceiling so high that the torchlight could not reach it.

But for all the sanctum’s vastness she felt she scarce had room to breathe, as if there were a weight pressing on her chest. The walls were lined with countless faces, perfectly preserved yet undeniably lifeless, the cheeks hollow and lips hanging open. The eye sockets yawned deep and black, swimming with some dark presence, unknown and unknowable, as though the faces’ previous owners – or perhaps some higher force – were watching her.

She hurried on through the sanctum until she rounded a pillar and caught sight of Jaqen. He was reclining against one of the stone slabs used for preparing the bodies of those whose faces now lined the walls. It was an odd contrast. The pale grey stone was a monument of death, but even in his austere master’s robe, Jaqen exuded life. His red hair and softly bronzed skin were warmed by the flickering torchlight, and as she drew closer, she saw the way the fire danced in his blue eyes.

“A girl is early,” he said. “A man did not expect her to be finished with her duties so soon.”

She shrugged. “I’m quick with a vegetable peeler.”

“Yet another weapon the fearsome Cat has mastered,” he quipped.

“I’m not sure I’d call it a weapon,” she laughed. “Though I’m sure Umma could do some damage with one if she wished it.”

“Indeed,” he said with mock seriousness. “A man has often thought she is the most terrifying creature in this temple.”

“Agreed,” she said, matching his tone. Then, with a seriousness that did not require feigning, asked, “Can we talk now?”

“Get dressed first.” He stepped aside and she saw a pile of clothes folded neatly on the slab, a face lying on top. “Then we will take a walk, and all a girl’s questions will be answered.”

She picked up the pile and took it into one of the sanctum’s many antechambers. The clothes Jaqen had picked out for her were typical attire for a wealthy Braavosi woman, perhaps the wife of a successful merchant. She supposed that was who she and Jaqen would be posing as tonight.

The dress was in shades of rich cobalt and deepest charcoal, and the material moved over her skin like cool water. It wasn’t the most practical thing she could think to wear, but it was loose enough that she could move and breathe comfortably. If the situation called for it, she could likely fight and run, too, though she hoped that wouldn’t be necessary tonight.

She picked up the mask and sighed. She never enjoyed the process of putting on a new face. She might even have protested and asked Jaqen if she might go without it – she hadn’t been required to wear a mask last night, after all – but she knew why it was necessary. If they were to be walking around the city posing as wealthy Braavosi, then the bruising that had so distressed Umma just minutes ago would be sure to draw attention.

The antechamber was equipped with everything required by the uninitiated to change their faces, including vials of potion and an assortment of small, deadly-sharp knives. True Faceless Men could skip these unpleasant steps, but for now the girl had to bear them.

Gritting her teeth, she reached for a vial of the potion. She unstopped it and threw it back, swallowing before the tart-flavoured liquid could linger too long in her mouth. Moving quickly, she picked up a knife and made a small incision on her forehead, just below the crown of her hair. She closed her eyes as blood trickled over her brow bone and lifted the mask to press it to her face.

She felt the cured skin grow supple and mould itself to the contours of her face, accompanied by the odd sensation of another person’s memories entering her mind. The woman to whom this face had belonged had evidently been dead a long while. Fresh faces tended to come with much more intense, often overwhelming, memories. This woman’s memories were but a whisper, a soft breeze against the girl’s consciousness. She caught hazy flashes of sunlight glinting off the waves of a bay, the soft murmur of a lover’s voice in the night, the smell of logs burning and fresh bread… All pleasant memories. The girl wondered, as she always did, what had driven the woman to drink the poisoned water at the temple of the Many-Faced God. She did not allow herself to dwell on the thoughts, though, knowing they were pointless.

She gave herself a cursory glance over in a looking glass before emerging from the antechamber. It was a pretty face she now wore; nothing too remarkable, but combined with the clothes she was satisfied she looked the part.

Jaqen was waiting for her as she returned to the sanctum. He, too, had changed into clothes befitting a wealthy Braavosi, but she noticed with irritation that he had not changed his face.

“How come I have to change my face if you don’t?” she asked indignantly.

“A girl’s injuries would draw too much attention,” he replied calmly.

“Need I remind you that you have your own injuries?” she began, but stopped as he tilted her head towards her, showing a line of unbroken skin where just earlier there had been a cut.

“Did a man not say he heals quickly?” he said. Then, chuckling at the disbelief on her face, clarified, “It is a glamour, lovely girl. Not as complete a transformation as changing one’s face, but sufficient for times such as this.”

“Why couldn’t I just do that, then?”

“A man assumes that since a girl did not realise this was an option, she has yet to learn the art of glamouring.”

She scowled, annoyed at her own ignorance of such a useful skill. Why had she not been taught such a thing already?

“But if a girl is so repulsed by a man’s true face, he supposes he can find one more to her liking,” he teased.

“Oh, shut up,” she grumbled. “Let’s just go.”

“Very well,” he said, amusement glittering in his eyes.

They walked back up the stairs in silence until she blurted out, “Wait, you said your ‘true face’?”

“Why is a girl so surprised?” Jaqen asked, seeming a little taken aback by her outburst. “It is the usual practice for Faceless Men to wear their true faces within the temple, is it not?”

“Well, yes, but that would mean… when we first met, you were on a mission, weren’t you? Why would you wear your true face on a mission?”

“Ah, a man understands a girl’s confusion now,” he said. “He will explain this thing also, but when we will not be overheard.”

A scream of frustration bubbled in her throat, but she resisted the urge to let it out. Instead she just increased their pace, eager to get to wherever they were going so she could finally get answers to all her damned questions.

They reached the main floor of the temple and crossed silently through the prayer chamber. Jaqen pushed open the ebony door and they slipped out of the temple into the mild evening air. They descended the stairs and criss-crossed various bridges through the Isle of the Gods. The Sept-Beyond-the-Sea had its doors propped open and the sound of song drifted out, the polished voices of the resident septas easily distinguishable from the rough, accented voices of Westerosi sailors looking to bolster their faith while their ships were docked.

The girl recognised the song. It had been one of her mother’s favourites. Sansa had always sung it so prettily, but Arya missed notes and sang the wrong words; she was usually too busy thinking about horse riding or sword fighting or playing with her direwolf to bother much with proper reverence. Their mother, devout as she was, had despaired at her youngest daughter. The thoughts made the girl’s heart feel heavy.

Jaqen pulled her back to reality by taking her hand and placing it on his arm.

“If you get too lost in your thoughts, people might think my lovely wife is neglecting me,” he said. He had switched from the common tongue into Braavosi since they left the temple, and she was startled by how strange it was to hear him speak without his usual speech pattern. But, of course, his usual omission of names and pronouns was a Lorathi trademark, and it would raise eyebrows if a Braavosi merchant was overheard speaking in such a way.

“Oh, my most sincere apologies, dear husband,” she simpered, matching his flawless Braavosi and threading her arm tighter through his. “I shall endeavour to be more careful. I know how it could hurt your trade if I should cause people’s tongues to wag with gossip.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. She blinked guilelessly back. He said nothing but she thought she detected a hint of a smile on his lips.

_He’s enjoying this, the bastard._

They continued walking arm in arm until they crossed the main bridge connecting the Isle of the Gods to the rest of Braavos. It was at this point that her resolve finally broke.

“Will you _please_ tell me about my trial now?” she pleaded, dropping her voice low so that no one else would hear.

Her faceless companion gave her a sidelong glance, letting out a small sigh. “I had forgotten how impatient you could be.”

“I’m not impatient,” she protested. “I just want to be put out of my misery. How much further from the temple must we go before you are satisfied we won’t be overheard?”

He glanced around and seemed to come to a decision. He took her arm again and guided her over to a small wooden wharf, at the end of which a small canopied barge bobbed on the water. Its owner leaned on his bargepole, dozing, but startled awake when Jaqen approached him and began negotiating a price for passage. An agreement was reached and the bargeman bowed his head as Jaqen pressed some coins into his hand. Jaqen helped her climb into the boat and settle herself on some cushions under the canopy while the bargeman hopped up onto the wharf to untie the mooring line.

“Thank you for your assistance, husband,” she drawled once he was seated beside her. “I surely could never have managed such a feat without you.”

“Your fragility is part of your charm, my dear,” he said

She leant towards him, a sharp retort ready to leap from her tongue, but snapped her mouth shut when the bargeman poked his head under the canopy to check they were both comfortable. Jaqen replied that yes, they were, and she nodded her head and smiled in demure agreement. She caught Jaqen’s eye as the bargeman disappeared and the twinkle in his eye told her that yes, he was definitely enjoying this.

_Bastard._

A moment later they were drifting away from the wharf and heading towards the Long Canal. Jaqen took the opportunity to direct her focus away from his obvious amusement.

“A girl may ask her questions now.” He switched back to the common tongue, though being sure to speak quietly enough that the bargeman would not overhear. The thick velvet of the canopy’s drapes would muffle their conversation, but one could never be too careful.

“Did I fail my trial?” she asked immediately.

“Yes.” Her face fell, and he continued, “But, as a man said last night, not entirely.”

“But I am not to be initiated into the Order?”

“No, not yet.”

“Not yet? You mean I’m being given another chance?”

He nodded. “The Council was very impressed by a girl’s performance in her trial. But a girl’s hesitation showed that there is one lesson she has yet to learn.”

“How to be no one,” she murmured, digging her fingers into the plush throw pillow on which she sat.

“Just so,” Jaqen affirmed. “A girl is to continue her training, and when the Council is satisfied that she has truly become no one, she will be given another chance.”

She fell silent. She supposed she should feel relieved; grateful, even. To some extent she did. She was not in any immediate danger of being thrown out of the temple, and that knowledge was an undeniable comfort. But the fact remained that she had failed her trial, even after how hard she had worked as an acolyte. And the cause of her failure was one she did not know how to address. If she had failed on account of sloppy swordsmanship, she could train harder; if she had tried to poison her mark and failed, she could study correct dosages and delivery techniques; if she had stumbled over her Braavosi and alerted her target to the ruse, she could work on perfecting her accent.

But none of these things had let her down. The real issue was one not so easily fixed, because it was with _her_. Something deep in her soul refused to let go of Arya Stark, no matter how hard she had tried over the years to do so. And if she couldn’t let go of her past, she was doomed to fail, again and again, until whatever small favour she held with the Council ran out.

A nauseous feeling churned in her gut, one that had nothing to do with the way the boat was bobbing about on the choppy waters of the Long Canal.

“Why does a girl still look so troubled?” Jaqen asked.

She shook her head slowly, chewing on her lip, then began softly, “I can’t believe I failed. After everything. After all my training. I just… how can it all have been for nothing? How can I…” she trailed off, not wanting to finish the thought; knowing that she could not finish it even if she had wanted to. She may have admitted that she trusted Jaqen, but that didn’t mean she could tell him how deep her personal turmoil went.

“It has not been for nothing, lovely girl,” Jaqen said. “The skills a girl has gained over the past five years are what impressed the Council so, what convinced them to give you another chance. The lesson a girl has yet to fully learn is a difficult one; the Council understands this. It is a lesson that every Faceless Man has struggled with at some point.”

“Even you?”

He sighed, and the girl felt as though the air between them grew heavier. “A man has struggled with this lesson more than most.”

His answer intrigued her. She wanted to ask him more, but she didn’t suppose he would tell her anything specific. Besides, she had problems of her own to be dealing with right now.

Jaqen watched her closely, seeming to be turning something over in his mind. The dejection still hung heavy over her, and she was worrying at her lip again. After a long moment, he leaned towards her, his eyes boring into hers with new intensity. She leaned forwards, too, so that their faces were only inches apart. He dropped his voice even lower, so it was little more than a sonorous murmur in her ears.

“A wolf would not give up so easily.”

Such simple words, yet they sent shockwaves through her. They burrowed deep into her mind, latching onto that hidden part of herself, the Stark in her that she kept locked away. She felt laid bare, utterly naked in front of this man. How was it that he saw through her so easily? He stripped away the carefully cultivated layers of her identity until only the rawest, most fundamental truths remained.

_I don’t have to tell him anything,_ she realised. _He knows it all. Somehow, no matter how I try to hide, he sees me._

She sat back, taking a deep breath, but keeping her eyes fixed on Jaqen. She wondered briefly if she should be concerned about how much Jaqen _saw_. After all, he was a Faceless Man; his allegiance was to the Order. If he suspected she was straying from their doctrines, keeping secrets of such a serious nature, he would surely report her to the Council. The logical part of her mind insisted that she keep her guard up, but Jaqen was right: she was a wolf, and a wolf knew when to think, and when to trust its instincts. Just now, her instincts won out. They told her the truth: she had nothing to fear from Jaqen.

“So I am to continue my training as normal?” she said, voice steady once again.

Jaqen smiled, approval warming his eyes. “For the most part, yes. The only change will be who oversees a girl’s training.”

“Oh. Alright,” she said, perplexed. “Who’s it going to be?” Her training had always been overseen by the Waif – with significant input from the Kindly Man – although she had had instruction from practically every Faceless Master over the years.

“A man suggested to the Council that perhaps a new style of teaching would be beneficial for a girl after so long with the same masters.”

She blinked at him. “ _You_? Really?”

“Is a girl displeased by this news?”

“No, of course not,” she said. In fact, the prospect delighted her. Jaqen was the one who had first introduced her to this world, and now she would get to learn from him directly. “Just a little surprised. You said yourself, you’ve been away from Braavos a long time. I assumed the Order preferred for you to spend your time on assignments. It’s usually only the older Faceless Men who become Masters.”

“Ah, so because a man is young and handsome, a girl thinks he is not fit to be her teacher,” he said, his lips curling.

“I never said you were handsome,” she scoffed. He was, obviously, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. “I only said that you aren’t old. But youth doesn’t necessarily imply beauty. Just look at me.”

He tilted his head at her. “A man is looking.”

Heat prickled at her neck. His eyes seemed to be penetrating her. She got the distinct impression that whatever he was looking at, it wasn't the false face she currently wore. There was something in his voice, something soft and coarse all at once; the warm lick of the flame and the roughness of the coal. She didn’t understand it. Her heart beat a little faster.

“A girl has more questions, does she not?” Jaqen prompted when the silence had stretched out just a little too long.

“Yes.” She shook herself mentally. “How did the Boar know about my trial? He shouldn’t even have known it was happening, much less the results.”

“No,” Jaqen agreed. “He should not have known. A man has pondered this, and there are only two conceivable ways he could have found out: either he was told by another Faceless Man, or he somehow eavesdropped on the Council meeting this morning. Either way, it is worrying. This thing should have been confidential.” He paused for a moment, then added, “A man swears to you, lovely girl, that he did not knowingly give the Boar this information.”

“I never thought you did,” she said.

She wondered, briefly, why that was. Jaqen was the obvious person to suspect, and yet she never had. Not for a moment.

_I suppose for the same reason I know he’ll keep my secrets safe from the Council,_ she told herself. _Instinct._

Something about that answer didn’t feel quite right, but she found that she didn’t want to dwell on it any longer.

“So what are we going to do about it?” she asked in a rush.

“Nothing, for now,” Jaqen said. “A man does not think the Boar poses any immediate danger, but even if he does, we now know to be on our guard.”

“Well, are we going to have to leave the temple every time we want to discuss something vaguely confidential? Because as lovely as all of this it,” she made a sweeping gesture to encompass all of the vessel’s luxurious trimmings, “you might end up dipping a little too deep into the Order’s coffers if we do it every other day.”

Her tone was wry, but she raised a good point. Aside from the cost, leaving the temple too often would raise eyebrows. They would have to come up with a way of communicating confidential information within the temple.

“Perhaps,” he mused, “a girl could ensure that the Boar and his ‘goons’ remain in the infirmary indefinitely.”

“Jaqen!” She swatted him on the arm. “I’m being serious!”

“As is a man. A man does not think this task would cause a girl too much trouble.”

“Maybe I should just give a man three more names and let him do the dirty work,” she said, her tone needling.

“Ah, but a man has already payed his debt to a girl,” he lamented. “He owes her nothing more.”

He leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head in a way that stretched the fabric of his shirt across his chest, the collar opening to reveal the planes of his collarbones. She found her eyes roving over the area unbidden, tracing the triangle of smooth bronzed skin upwards until it joined the curve of his neck, higher still to his strong jaw and full lower lip. An insane image sprung to her mind, of her leaning over and following that same line with her tongue. She looked just a bit higher and found his eyes, hooded and dark, regarding her, a question somewhere in their depths.

“I think I might be able to convince you,” she said. A surge of brazenness took hold of her, a devilish smile tugging up one corner of her mouth.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Oh?”

“I’ve learned a great many things since becoming an acolyte, including how to get a man in my debt.” Her voice was low, her tone shifting in ways that made one think of bedsheets and closed doors, whispered words and honey wine. She inched closer to him on the pillows.

Jaqen had become very still, watching her approach as a wolf might watch a human who had wandered across its path; wary, though not afraid; curious, but not enough to risk approaching closer.

She leaned in, looking at him through lowered lashes, and the scent of him washed over her. Musk and spice, pine and ginger. Familiar and foreign all at once, and entirely intoxicating.

He shifted ever so slightly so that he was angled towards her, dropping his arms back down to his sides. She wondered if he would reach for her, try to touch her, either to pull her closer or push her away, but he didn’t. He just kept watching her, waiting to see what she would do. Her eyes flicked down to his collar again and she was again overcome with the urge to taste the skin there.

Some sane part of her was screaming at her to stop, but it was like her body was moving of its own volition, not responding to her, just reacting. To _him_.

_What in seven hells am I doing?_

_I don’t know._

_I don’t care._

She was only inches away, heart pounding so loud she was sure he could hear it. She teetered on the edge of a decision – close the distance or retreat – when a soft _thud_ broke the spell. She sat quickly back on the pillows as the bargeman’s head popped around the edge of the canopy.

“We have arrived,” he said with a smile, oblivious to what he had interrupted, totally unaware of how hard the girl was fighting to steady her breathing.

“Thank you,” Jaqen answered, sounding completely unaffected. He looked across at her as the bargeman retreated. He shook his head, a soft laugh escaping his lips. “More courage than sense.”

She fought against the heat rising in her cheeks, though now that there was some distance between them the mortification at what she had just tried to do was taking hold.

He stood and held out a hand to her. “Come, lovely girl. The night is still young. A girl may have a man in her debt by the end of it.”

She looked at him uncertainly, but there was no hint of judgement in his eyes, so she slipped her hand into his and let him pull her to her feet. His calloused palm was rough against hers, and he didn’t let go, even once they had both climbed out of the boat and were walking on solid ground again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one! Two of my best friends just had their birthdays and extensive celebrations inconveniently close together so I've spent the last week and a half couchsurfing my way around the country in a constant state of sleep-deprived semi-drunkenness. Which was super fun for me but not exactly a recipe for great writing. 
> 
> On that note, I want to add that if anyone has comments on my writing, please feel free to share them. Comments on the story and how awesome Arya and Jaqen are are, of course, welcome, but I'm writing this fic partly because I want to improve my writing abilities so constructive criticism on things like style, tone, dialogue, etc. is always appreciated! Same goes for if you notice any smaller, more specific errors/inconsistencies. I don't have anyone beta reading this and sometimes I miss stuff.


	6. The First Lesson

Chapter VI

The First Lesson

Her hand was soft and cool in his. Delicate, almost. The Lorathi never would have guessed how deadly those hands could be if he didn’t already know.

_Deadly in more ways than one, it would seem_ , he thought, pondering the events that had just occurred in the barge.

He wondered what might have happened if they hadn’t reached their destination at that precise moment. Would she have closed the distance? Would he have stopped her? He told himself that he would have, but in truth he wasn’t convinced. He was satisfied he had maintained his composure externally in the face of the girl’s unexpected advance, but on the inside, he had been... flustered. The thought briefly crossed his mind that if it had been a pair of wide grey eyes batting their eyelashes at him rather than the almond-shaped brown ones the girl currently wore, he might have let himself slip. He would have to be more careful.

For both their sakes.

‘Where are we going now, my love?’

Her voice pulled him from his thoughts. She was speaking once more in Braavosi, her tone and words befitting a dutiful wife. He was surprised she felt comfortable slipping back into that role so quickly after what had just happened and how embarrassed she had seemed about it. But he had offered her his hand in an attempt to show her there was no need for embarrassment and it appeared she had understood the gesture.

‘I thought you might be hungry,’ he replied. ‘You have had a rather trying day, after all, and I’m afraid our outing has made us miss the evemeal at home.’

‘I have had quite the day, haven’t I?’ She sighed melodramatically, then glanced around to get her bearings. ‘So… the House of Seven Lamps?’

‘That is the place I had in mind, yes. It’s only ten minutes or so from here on foot.’

‘I shall try not to keel over from exhaustion before we get there.’

‘I can always carry you if the strain gets too much.’

She stopped, turned towards him with a smile as sweet as candied apples. ‘At your peril, dear husband.’

He laughed, finding it very easy to imagine the feisty Cat clawing a man’s eyes out for daring to try and carry her. She may have been a wolf at heart, but her feline moniker was certainly well suited too.

They wove their way through the tight streets of Braavos, the sounds of the city flowing around them just as the water of the canals flowed alongside them. Music drifted out of alehouses and inns, chased down by raucous applause; old ladies leaned from windows above, cackling delightedly as they exchanged gossip with their neighbours across the way; vendors lifted their ululating voices above the din, trying to sell the last of their wares before packing up for the day. And beside him, a girl sighed contentedly.

‘I love this city,’ she murmured.

The Faceless Man had to agree. There was something about the Secret City, as it was colloquially known. The way the light fell, glinting off the water that was as much a part of the city as the buildings. The confounding tangle of canals, roads and bridges that one either knew intimately or not at all. The people of the city, always ready with a warm smile and a song, spirits as indomitable as the Titan that stood tall over the Bay, broken sword aloft, roaring his age-old promise to uphold the creeds upon which this city was built; freedom, equality, justice. Understandably for someone who had agreed to forego their identity in order to join an elite guild of assassins, the Lorathi had never truly come to understand the concept of _home_. But Braavos came close to filling that particular hole in his heart.

The path they were following diverged from the canal, spilling out into a broad square lined with elegant buildings and dotted with fountains. Wealthy Braavosi crisscrossed the square in their evening finery, visiting other members of their caste for dinner parties. The ladies hitched up their skirts and shied away from the grubby paupers’ children who had come to the square to play in the fountains – and perhaps pick a pocket or two – while their male escorts shooed the urchins away in irritation. A gaggle of bravos squared up to one another. Their voices were raised in challenge, fingers twitching towards their blades.

The Faceless pair stuck to the shadows at the foot of the buildings, hurrying their pace slightly. Night was well on its way to falling, and the bravos would be looking for trouble soon enough. They of course had nothing to fear from a bravo brawl, but still, trouble was trouble, and they didn’t need to be caught in the middle of it.

They left behind the square, following a canal north-west, away from the wealthy district around the Prestayns Palace where the bargeman had deposited them. Slowly but surely, the opulence drained away, the city looking more weather-worn and lived-in the closer they got to Ragman’s Harbour.

He smelled the House of Seven Lamps before he saw it. The heavily incensed air of the tavern spilled out into the street, mingling with the briny scent of the Black Canal. The smell brought back memories of being a young acolyte, scrounging for secrets around Ragman’s Harbour to take back to his master.

_‘What three things have you learned today, child?’_

_A girl has enemies within the temple, but also holds some favour. A girl trusts a man with her secrets, dangerous though they are. A girl now has a woman’s gifts, though not a woman’s experience._

But he was an apprentice no more, and none of these things would be reaching his old master’s ears. These things were for him alone to ponder. A girl had given him her trust, after all, and he intended to guard it like a child would a bird with a broken wing.

They ducked into the tavern, blinking to adjust their eyes to the dim, smoky light inside. The incensed air hung thick and heavy, ribbons of smoke drifting over the heads of the tavern’s patrons. This particular inn was perfect for their needs: civilised enough that no one would question a merchant bringing his wife there for a meal; just uncivilised enough that things were bound to get a little bit rowdy, and they could speak freely.

The girl wove her way through the crowd towards a booth in a quiet corner and relaxed against the soft wine-red leather with a sigh.

‘You know,’ she said as the Lorathi slipped into the booth opposite her. ‘I could get used to these outings. There’s nothing worse than going to evemeal in the temple and sitting on those awful benches when you’ve spent the whole day getting your arse knocked in the dirt.’

‘A man has already given a girl some herbal remedies to help with such things, but if she feels she is in need of a more… hands on approach, he would be happy to assist.’

She scowled, cheeks flushing to match the upholstery.

‘Oh, bugger off.’ All traces of the demure Braavosi wife were gone now that everyone else was out of earshot. ‘Honestly, I bat my eyelashes at you a few times and this is what happens?’

‘In a man’s defence, they are very pretty eyelashes.’

She was forced to swallow her retort yet again as a serving maid appeared by their table, a nervous smile quivering on her lips.

‘Good evening, m’lord, m’lady,’ she said shakily. They were very clearly not a lord and lady, but the girl was young, probably new to the job, and evidently erring on the side of caution. ‘How can I be of service?’

‘Good evening,’ the assassin replied with a smile. He asked what was available from the kitchen and the girl rattled off a list of dishes so fast it was a wonder her tongue didn’t trip over itself. She finished her recitation and gulped down a breath, eyes darting between them, feet shuffling as if she wanted to run away. She was more than just nervous, he realised. She was scared.

‘We’ll have two portions of the chicken pie and a bottle of your finest white wine.’ He tried to make his voice as unthreatening as possible, but the girl still curtsied and hurried away double-quick as soon as he was finished speaking.

‘She’s scared,’ said his new apprentice from across the table. ‘I wonder why?’

‘A man has never known the owners of this tavern to be cruel to their staff.’

‘Nor have I. Perhaps she’s had trouble with a patron.’

‘Perhaps...’

The girl watched the door through which the serving maid had disappeared for a moment longer before giving her head a slight shake and turning to face him. The face she wore was a picture, pretty as a bunch of fresh-picked daisies. Milk-white skin and full pink lips under a crown of honey-blonde curls. The eyes might have completed the picture, deep brown and doe-soft, but they regarded him with a sharpness that didn’t quite fit. He could practically see the icy grey bleeding through. It was all Stark. All _Arya_. She would have to work on hiding that.

‘So,’ she began. She glanced around to ensure they would not be overheard, but nobody was paying them the slightest bit of attention. The patrons were too deep in their cups and their own conversations to worry much what a merchant and his wife were talking about. ‘This is your true face?’

He nodded. ‘A man has said.’

‘…Well? You promised me an explanation. Why were you wearing your true face when we first met?’

The Lorathi sighed, tapped his fingers on the table. He had half-hoped she would forget to ask this particular question of him. At least for now. Buried within the answer, woven between the threads of this story, was a difficult truth. A dangerous lesson. It was a lesson that he needed to impart, one that the girl desperately needed to learn, but he was unsure if just now was the right time. He wanted to wait a little, until he was sure she would understand what he was telling her. Sure he could trust her with it.

But, the girl spoke truth. He had promised her an explanation.

‘Before a man begins,’ he said, ‘a girl must understand that there are some things he cannot disclose. The details of a man’s mission, his target, for example, are confidential.’

‘Of course,’ she said, nodding solemnly.

He took a deep breath, watching the girl closely. She had given him her trust. It was time to give his own in return. 

‘Suffice it to say,’ he began, ‘that a large part of a man’s mission – aside from giving the gift to the one whose end had been prayed for – was to gather information. And it turned out that the best place to gather this information was in the cells of the Red Keep. A man would have preferred to pose as a guard simply for the sake of comfort and hygiene—’ _Other reasons, too_ , he thought, brushing his thumb over his wrist underneath the table ‘—but a man needed to talk to the other prisoners. Inmates talking amongst themselves is normal. Guards talking to inmates… less so. It happens, but it is not common. It draws attention. So, there was only one option: become an inmate.

‘A man’s mission was to be long, however. Months long at best. And a man knew that if he were to pose as a prisoner, he would be under constant scrutiny. From his cellmates, the guards, any officials who came to question him about his crimes. There would be absolutely no room for error. A man’s cover had to be flawless; armour with no chink to exploit.’ He paused. ‘A girl has no doubt been taught about the effects of wearing another’s face for too long...?’

She nodded. ‘I know the longer you wear a mask, the more you begin to lose yourself. The lines between you and the person the face belonged to become blurred. Your memories overlapping and merging until you don’t know which are yours and which are theirs.’

‘And a girl understands why this is risky?’

‘Of course. One can lose sight of their objectives, forget themselves and the mission. Start to lose their edge, forget their training, that kind of thing.’

‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘But that is only part of the problem. Eventually, the subconscious will become overwhelmed by all the disparate memories. The two faces will begin to oppose one another. At that point, all it will take is a moment of weakness – while in sleep, for example, or under physical stress – and the false face will be rejected entirely.

‘The danger with our Order’s particular brand of magic,’ he continued, his voice dropping, becoming more urgent, ‘is that we cannot just use a simple spell or working that, once cast, can be left alone. One must maintain _constant control_. If a man had worn another face for the length of time he was confined in the Red Keep, and then on the King’s Road and at Harrenhal, his control would have been pushed to its limits. A man has trained for such long missions, but even he would have slipped eventually, and the mask along with it. When constantly surrounded by enemies, such a mistake could have cost a man his life, and certainly would have cost him his mission.’

The girl was leaning forwards, eyes intense, her attention entirely trained on him. She could tell that this story was building towards something bigger.

‘Is a girl beginning to understand?’ he asked. ‘Changing faces is a constant battle between the one whose face is being used, and the one who is using it. A battle of _identities_.’

He fixed her in his stare, letting the silence drive home his meaning. Her brow furrowed, and he could see her turning his words over in her mind. Realising their full implication.

‘… I’ve never heard it explained like that before,’ she said.

‘No,’ he replied with a humourless laugh. ‘I imagine not. But it is important that a girl heeds this lesson. Changing faces is a dangerous business. A girl must always be in control. The Order teaches you to _“rule your face”_ , but it not just your own face you must worry about. A girl must rule every face she ever wears.’ He leaned across the table, eyes boring into hers. ‘A girl must never lose sight of who she is, or she will lose herself to the masks.’

Silence fell between them, the girl staring at the Lorathi like he’d struck her, the sounds of the tavern washing over them like waves lapping the shore in the wake of a storm. Finally, she released a long, shuddering breath.

‘Why are you telling me this?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘A girl asked a question, so a man gave her the answer.’

‘No, Jaqen.’ She shook her head, leant across the table towards him. ‘That was so much more than an answer to my question. What you just told me goes against everything I’ve been taught. Seven hells, Jaqen, it’s borderline _heresy_. There are some in the temple that would want you dead just for suggesting something like that.’

‘Why does a girl think we are having this conversation here and not in the temple?’

She sat back and swallowed hard, shaking her head disbelievingly. The Lorathi felt a stirring of pity in his chest, knowing how confusing this must be for her, how five years of training would be fighting for dominance over this new information he had given her. He had experienced the same dizzying confusion when he had realised this difficult truth himself, back when he was still an acolyte. But his realisation had come internally, slowly over the course of months. He had not been slapped in the face with it by a master he’d only just been assigned.

So yes, he felt for the girl just then as he watched her eyes go distant, mind reeling behind them. But the beginnings of his sympathy were killed stone-dead when she looked at him, eyes sharp as daggers.

‘Is this another test?’ she demanded. ‘Because I warn you, Jaqen, new master or no, I’m going to be mightily pissed with you if it is.’

‘Does a girl honestly believe that?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know what to believe,’ she admitted, bitterness and suspicion tinging her words.

He made no reply, thinking it best to let her come to her own conclusions. The pair sat in silence until the serving girl returned with their food and drink, curtsying away before either of them could utter thanks. The Lorathi poured out two glasses of the wine, and without pause or ceremony the girl reached for her glass and knocked it back in three huge gulps. She slammed it back down on the table, gesturing wordlessly at him to refill it. He raised an eyebrow at her but did as he was bid. She raised the replenished glass to her mouth again but did not drink, instead just eyeing her companion over the rim.

‘I assume this philosophy is not shared by the other masters?’ she finally said.

‘A man cannot speak for his brothers and sisters. A man came to this realisation himself many years ago and has never spoken to anyone of it until now. If the other masters have realised this thing, they have clearly also decided it best kept to themselves.’

‘I think I’ll follow their example.’

‘That would be wise.’

‘No wonder the Council keeps you away on missions, you agitator,’ she muttered drily.

She was keeping her expression well-guarded, but the Lorathi thought perhaps there was a hint of… if not enlightenment, then at least a hesitant acceptance. A willingness to consider things from a new angle. Certainly, the wariness was gone, and she wasn’t angry. That was good. Maybe all he could hope for at this point.

He ventured a small smile, and when she didn’t immediately lash out to scratch it from his face, he allowed it to grow into a full lopsided smirk. He was rewarded with a smile in return, the girl shaking her head and laughing softly. A little breathlessly, perhaps. From the remnants of her shock or… something else, he couldn’t say.

‘A man feels that he was rather forthcoming about his intentions when he suggested to the Council that he be a girl’s new master.’

‘Right,’ the girl snorted. ‘“New style of teaching”, indeed. If that style is teaching me how to get murdered by the Council for heresy.’

‘That will not happen.’

‘I should bloody well hope not.’

‘It will not,’ he insisted. ‘Not if a girl is willing to heed a man’s lessons.’

‘…I am,’ she said. Then, with a heavy sigh, continued, ‘Though could we possibly put this particular lesson to bed for now? I need to think on it. Alone.’

‘Of course. A man understands. There is just one more thing a man would say on the subject…’ He paused, the girl nodding at him to continue. ‘A girl must understand that despite a man’s divergence from some of the Order’s more orthodox teachings, he is still a disciple of the Many-Faced God. He still _serves_.’

‘I know, Jaqen. And I understand what it means for you to tell me all this. What you are risking…’ She looked at him seriously, unblinking. All sincerity. No more jests and dry humour. Then, with a tilt of her head and a small smile, she asked ‘…Do you trust a girl?’

He smiled in return, felt the answer take shape somewhere deep inside him, rising up from a place of pure instinct.

‘Yes,’ he said simply. Foolish, perhaps, but true. ‘I trust you.’


End file.
